


Nothing Like The Sun

by liesmyth



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Aphrodisiacs, Class Differences, Happy Ending, Loyalty, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics, Rare Pairings, Service Kink, Service Top, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 08:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/pseuds/liesmyth
Summary: When Jord had first met the Prince, he’d thought him far too beautiful to be real — like a statue, or a painting. Jord’s rough hands weren’t made to handle something so refined. But he looked, and he wanted, until he was trembling with it.Or, post-GBFAS. Jord would do anything his Prince asked of him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peachis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachis/gifts).



> This fic is for Lola, who has amazing taste and amazing rarepair prompts. I really, really hope you'll enjoy this — thank you for getting me into this ship in the first place and giving me such delicious inspiration, and just generally for existing.
> 
> Many thanks to [Ita](https://orangepaperweight.tumblr.com) for the cheerleading and the brainstorming, to [Luna](https://lunavagantt.tumblr.com) for staying up til 4 am to comment with Shakespeare quotes on my draft, to [Lu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/stillwaterseas) for holding my hand in one very crucial scene. Also, extra thanks to [Mist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seek_The_Mist/pseuds/Seek_The_Mist) and [Tumsa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumsa/pseuds/tumsa) for the amazing on-point feedback. I have the best #squad.
> 
> This story includes pining, class differences, many feelings and some smut, and is quite possibly the most indulgent thing I have written. Please enjoy all the tropes, and I hope you'll have as much fun reading this as I had with the prompt.

Jord was the Prince’s favourite.

It was something Orlant said once, when they’d all gone out to a third-rate inn to drink cheap swill as they toasted the defeat of Chauvin and the future of the Guard. It was warm by the fire and the spirits were merry, eyes shining with alcohol. They toasted Huet’s lady-pet hat and Jord’s sword arm, cheering the time he’d put Chauvin into the dirt, and they toasted to Rochert’s sister, which got Rochert to frown at them.

Then they toasted the Prince, many times over, who was young and green but smart as a whip and had shown loyalty to his common-born men. And he was pretty, they all agreed; and as the evening wore on the men all turned bolder, rogues wearing the liveries of noblemen. His Highness had pouty lips, and a slim body, _and that face_ — they didn’t dare go further, but they were thinking it.

And then Orlant, raising his glass high, said, “He’s a tough son of a bitch for such a pretty boy. Could eat half of you for breakfast, that’s for sure. Except for Jord.” His words were all slurred, and Jord felt two dozen pair of eyes turn on him. “He likes ‘im better than any of us.”

It was true that the Prince seemed to seek out Jord more often than any of the others, and relied on him to transmit his orders to the men. Jord figured the Prince liked that he’d once been recommended by Prince Auguste, that he was reasonably well-spoken, and didn’t go easy on him in the training yard. That was it.

But those words, the way Orlant had phrased them, drunk and sleazy, evoked something entirely different. Midnight assignments and forbidden touches, the kind of tryst a man would never forget for as long as he lived. _The Prince’s favourite_. Jord snorted at his own wild imagination and drank more ale. Afterwards he wiped his lips on the sleeve of his jacket; had anyone from court seen him, they would have been appalled.

He had guard duty in the morning, which meant standing outside the double doors of the Prince’s apartments as servants went in and out to kindle the fire and carry little silver trays. Then the Prince himself would emerge, clad in simple clothing, his eyes soft with sleep. Jord would escort him to the training ring two corridors over, and there he would have the pleasure to knock his Prince to the ground over and over, watching him rise back to his feet with his face flushed red and his hair damp with sweat.

The first time he’d sparred with the Prince he had lost, taken by surprise, but it had never happened again. The Prince was a boy of fifteen and Jord was almost a full decade older, and experienced in the sort of dirty alley fighting that would have made aristocrats like Chauvin turn their noses up at him. The Prince had brushed the dirt off his clothes and ordered Jord to teach him.

He followed the Prince around all day, from his quarters to the stables to the comfortable sitting rooms that lined the corridors near the Assembly Hall, where the lords and ladies of the realm convened and the functionaries of the court had their offices. There the affairs of the kingdom were examined and discussed and finally brought to the attention of the Regent, who made his rulings from the throne that should have been Prince Auguste’s. The Regent was keeping it in trust, and now Prince Laurent had decided it was about time he proved his commitment to his duties and to his family’s legacy by showing interest in the workings of the Council and the governance of Vere. Unfortunately for all involved, he seemed to have chosen to do so by defying his uncle at every turn.

Jord did not hold the Regent of Vere in high esteem. He had seen the kind of men he employed, thugs and criminals in aristocrats’ clothing, and how he’d build his own prestige at the cost of defrauding Prince Laurent’s inheritance.Yet the Regent was safe in his position, and the Prince was making it worse. His words were too loud, his quips too scathing. He spoke with eloquence, but no man liked to be shown up by a boy. Since Marlas, the Prince had been raised by his uncle and the resemblance showed — they shared the same detached air, the same gleam in their blue eyes, the identical way they’d both arc their eyebrows expectantly. But the Regent had behind himself the wisdom of age and the power of a kingdom, and the Prince was alone. He carried himself with a strange mix of youthful inexperience and royal entitlement; he demanded when he should be asking and hesitated when he should be insistent. Jord watched it all from the sidelines, and he thought — he'd grow up dangerous.

“He _likes_ you,” Orlant kept insisting, even after Jord had told him to quit it. “The other day, when you went down to the armourer’s all afternoon, the Prince wanted to go for that ride down to the river. And he got down to the courtyard, saw me and Roland waiting by the stables, and looked Roland straight in the face with those big blue eyes and said ‘Where is Jord?’”

Orlant's impression of the Prince's voice rang surprisingly true. Jord felt heat creeping up his neck.

“The Prince likes to keep track of his men,” he pointed out. “I bet he has all of our turns memorised.”

“He's memorised yours, that's for sure. Likes to check if you’re close by—”

“Orlant,” Jord warned.

“And in the training yard… I’ve seen you. He likes to plaster himself close when you fight. How many times has he got you to push him to the ground? Wouldn’t mind being in your place.”

That Jord had noticed as well. It would have been impossible not to; whenever he sparred with the Prince they would end up pressed close, bodies locked together, with far more touching than Jord had come to expect from simple swordplay. And yet the Prince had asked Jord to show him the rougher style of the streets, a kind of fighting that was as much skill with the blade as it was hard shoves and quick feet and sharp elbows. Jord now knew how the Prince's body felt under him, breathing roughly with exertion. But there was nothing more, certainly. The Prince was relentless about his sword practice and there was nothing frivolous about it, no matter what Orlant said.

“Quit it,” he said, again, and did his best to push Orlant’s words out of his mind.

—

Still, it was easier said than done. The next time the Prince went to the stables for a ride he looked around, searchingly, and when his eyes found Jord he nodded slightly to himself and the corners of his mouth twisted into a small smile.

Once Jord casually mentioned receiving a letter from home while on duty, and that evening the Prince inquired after Jord’s family and the small town he’d been born in, listening with genuine interest as Jord fumbled over the words. Afterwards, whenever Jord received a letter from his family the Prince took to asking if all was well, how his sister’s crops were doing, and if there was anything they might need. A few times Jord pictured his sister’s reaction if he’d told her that the Prince of Vere had asked after her health, and had to laugh at the image that came to his mind.

Jord might have worried that the Prince’s attention would single him out from the rest of the Guard, except the Prince made sure to only ask those strangely intimate questions when they were alone. And they were alone often, in the sparring room and on Jord’s morning shift every third day, even as the weeks went on and the Prince brought more men into his service. It didn’t mean anything, Jord told himself. He’d been brought into the capital’s militia on request of Prince Auguste, the last link to the past for a boy in mourning, but all boys grew into men eventually. This wouldn’t last.

In the evenings, the Prince didn’t entertain as often as his station demanded. Jord, who knew nothing about what was required of a Prince, had heard the claim made in mournful tones by some of the master servants at the Palace, who remembered with fondness the happier times of King Aleron and Prince Auguste. Perhaps the Prince would want to do more once he was older, palace functionaries whispered, and not so focused on his studies, and the apartments of the Crown Prince would resound with laughter once again.

For now, the Regent entertained plenty, and Jord had heard rumours that some of his soirées were too outrageous even for the court of Vere to discuss openly. He wondered, briefly, what that meant, and why a man who made a spectacle of being so impeccable in public may have done that reduced the servants to whispering behind their hands.

When the Regent wasn’t busy with guests in the privacy of his quarters he often took his meals in one of the dining halls open to the court, with a rotation of noblemen and ladies of high standing. The Prince was expected to show up as well, and often Jord went with him. He would stand straight with his back to an exquisite tapestry, and watch as plate after plate of artfully arranged food was brought out, and take notice of the ones that looked most appetising so that perhaps Orlant could persuade one of the kitchen women to share any leftovers. He looked to the guests, learning to match names to faces, to recognise sycophants from players and tell who could and who couldn’t be trusted. He watched his Prince, as it was his duty, and tried not to stare when his pale throat moved as he swallowed from his cup.

A few months into Jord’s employment with the Prince’s Guard the Lady Emelenine of Ladehors returned to Arles among grand fanfare, and that evening she was seated at the Regent’s right at one end of the table. One of her sons, the Lord Vincent, sat at the other end next to the Prince and began discussing enthusiastically how much he had missed the revelries of the court.

“But the country was good, too. Excellent for falconry.” Lord Vincent was eighteen and loud, and gesticulated wildly with his spoon as he spoke. “And I’ve brought back a dozen of those bottles of Neuvy gold you liked so much last time — you should try it.”

He’d said that to the Prince, and Jord had been staring closely enough that he could see the sudden stiffness in his shoulders. “There’s no need. Thank you.”

“If you say so.” Lord Vincent launched himself into a tale of the Spring Festival on his mother’s estate, and the wedding celebration he’d attended in Marches for one of his cousins. He pronounced it ‘rustic, but amusing’, and he appeared disappointed that the Prince didn’t seem to have anything noteworthy planned for his birthday in two weeks. Then, sweeping a look around the room. “I see the fashion in Arles has changed. You’ve cut your hair.”

The Prince turned his head around, and a strand of golden hair curled against his throat, falling just slightly over the collarbone. “Clearly.”

When Jord had first seen the Prince he had been struck by how pretty he looked, with his long eyelashes and bright eyes, the halo of hair hanging past his shoulder. He’d worn it loosely pulled back, and so had done everyone else. That was the old fashion by now, or so Jord had been given to understand; the small elaborate braids had gone out of style and so had the cascade of bejewelled pins, that had begun to adorn the hair of pets instead. He’d never seen the Prince wearing any jewels at all, but the rest of the court seemed more reluctant to follow in that regard. Lord Vincent certainly didn’t appear so inclined; he wore three rings just on his middle finger, each sparkling and worth at least a year of Jord’s pay.

The dinner went on. Servants came to take away half-finished plates and returned with a spread of cheeses and fruits. At the centre of the spread was a creamy goat cheese from Toutaine, served with sugared cherries. Jord happened to be glancing at the Regent just then, or he might have missed the quick glimpse of a red-cheeked boy sitting at the Regent’s elbow, with dolled-up curls and heavy stones dangling around his neck. The boy’s small pink tongue darted out to lick at the Regent’s spoon, white cream and red cherries, and the Regent’s thumb brushed under the boy’s jaw with a casual manner that betrayed habit. Jord blinked, and stared, and then he thought — _Oh_.

The scene at the head of the table caused a minor ripple among the dinner guests; Jord could see lords and ladies take stock of the situation, reassessing what they’d thought they knew about the Regent, then rearrange their surprise-slack features back into the expected courtly politeness. As if they hadn’t seen a thing.

The Prince had seen it, too. He dropped his cutlery; the silver spool fell from his slack fingers into the porcelain bowl with a resounding noise. His mouth twisted as if he’d bitten into something unspeakably bitter, his other hand grabbing the end of the table, fingers clutching the delicate linen of the tablecloth.

“I think I am quite done here.” His voice carried. “Vincent, we should go to your quarters. I’ll have that wine you were talking about.”

In the months Jord had spent in the Prince’s service he’d never seen him drink even a drop. He wouldn’t have said it now, watching him drown cup after cup in the sitting room of Lord Vincent’s quarters along with Lord Estienne and a couple other young men from the court, the kind that spent their days doing nothing whatsoever and would eventually find themselves in the Regent’s Guard. The perfume of scented candles was strong enough to give Jord the beginning of a headache, and a _cistre_ was playing softly from a corner of the room. Someone’s pet was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, his head thrown back to rest against Lord Vincent’s knee.

“I am relieved, you know.” Lord Vincent’s fingers were tangled among the pet’s hair, tugging. His nails were painted green and gold. “We’ve all heard _stories_ ,” he said. It was a drunken whisper, and it carried, but the other boys in the room seemed too inebriated to take notice. “It’s a good thing you’re still fun.”

The Prince too was blinking, his blue eyes hazy, but when he spoke his voice was still sharp. “Perhaps you shouldn’t listen to everything you hear around, Vincent. Or I could ask you why your cousin rushed to get married in the country with forty people and a herd of sheep as wedding guests.”

There was a pause, heavy with tension. Among the aristocracy, accusations of bastardy were ground for duels. Lord Vincent’s fingers stilled among the pet’s hair and the room went very quiet, even as the music still played softly in the background. Then the Prince shrugged.

“But you know I never listen to rumours,” he said, and held out his cup imperiously. “Pour me another.”

It was late into the night when Jord escorted the Prince back to his quarters, one floor and several corridors away. The Prince’s steps were slow and heavy, his face only slightly reddened, and something about the way he held himself reminded Jord of Rochert back when he’d used to show up drunk to a shift and pretend it all was fine. He looked, Jord thought, as if he’d had practice.

The entrance to the Prince’s quarters was on the far side of the royal wing. Jord had waited by those double doors dozens of times now, but he’d only been in the anteroom sparely. He’d certainly never walked past the arcs that led to the inner rooms, but he found himself drawn in that direction. It was just work, Jord told himself; the Prince had almost tripped in his heeled boots on one of the steps, and it was only dutiful that Jord saw him safe and sound.

The bedroom was as big as two of the sleeping rooms in the barracks put together, and the bed large enough for three people to sleep in it comfortably. The Prince let himself fall down on a corner of the mattress, tugging at the tight laces at his throat and muttering to himself. Then he caught sight of Jord. He blinked, shaking away the haze, and went very still. His face flushed pink, his lips wet. Jord, too, didn’t move.

“Jord.” The Prince’s voice was soft. Jord wondered if that was how he’d sound in the mornings, fresh from sleep.

“Your Highness,” he said. “I was — I’ll—”

The Prince waved it away. “Help me. Since you are here.”

It was Jord’s turn to blink; he stilled, stunned, thinking those words through. Did he…

“Come here,” said the Prince. “I am waiting.”

Jord’s feet took him to the bed. The Prince gestured downwards.

Expectant. “My boots.”

Jord knelt. The carpet was thick, blood reds and deep blues and golds. The Prince’s boots were just as exquisite in their manufacture, black leather embossed on the sides, and warm under his touch. He untied the laces with reverence, slowly sliding them past the myriad of metal hooks, and when he was done he put them neatly to the side. He could feel the Prince’s eyes on him, burning heavy.

He looked up.

“I’ve seen how you look at me.”

There on his knees, Jord startled.

“I’ve…” He tried again. “Your Highness, I…”

“Want to fuck me.”

Drunk, the Prince spoke pointedly, enunciating each of his words slowly and inexorably. A small smile tugged at the corners of his pretty lips, and it wasn’t at all innocent. Jord felt his face burn red.

“I apologise, I…” he stammered. “I would never presume.”

“You should do it,” the Prince said, drawing the words out slowly. “Fuck me.”

The world came to a halt. Jord didn’t dare breathe; his ears buzzed and he felt his heartbeat in his throat.

“Isn’t that what you want?” The Prince went on. “I’m sure you’ve thought about it. At night, when you’re getting yourself off. You look about to jump out of your skin.” A hand came to rest on his shoulder, and the touch made him shiver. Jord wanted to put his own hand there, rough and calloused. “I don’t mind it,” the Prince said. “You’d be grateful, wouldn’t you? I bet you’d try hard to make it good.”

He would… the fantasy displayed itself in his mind’s eyes, coming together like a flower unfurling in sunlight. He’d pin him down in the middle of the bed, press his lips to that pale skin. His hands were already shaking. He’d fantasised about fucking him roughly, whispering in the barracks along with everyone else, but now he felt reverence shook through him, on his knees like a worshipper at the altar. The Prince’s hand curled on the side of his neck, tilting his chin up with a brush of his thumb.

“I am waiting,” he said.

“I…” Jord wanted him, desperately. He would find out how that lithe body felt under his skin to skin, if he was as smart-mouthed when he was being fucked. How he sounded when he’d just woken up, in the morning.

And then he thought — in the morning, they would regret it. The Prince was temperamental and spiteful, and he was drunk now and perhaps he didn’t even know what he was saying. He’d never known the Prince to have lovers, not even boys like Lord Vincent who would like to curry favour with royalty, or an older pet like it was fashionable among young courtiers. Jord shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t have let himself get tangled up in this in the first place, smitten with a boy who held his life and fortune in the palm of his hand. He might get turned away, he might get the lash. He might — they would never have those quiet afternoons anymore, the Prince’s calm blue gaze fixed on him as he asked Jord how the farm was doing, and it was enough to make him feel like the most important person in all of Arles. He was smitten, there was nothing to be done. And the thought of giving that up was painful like a kick to the chest.

“I can’t. You’re — you’re drunk,” he said. “Your Highness.” He spoke the title like a shield. “You’re my Prince. I _can’t._ ”

The Prince didn’t like that, clearly. He frowned, as if confronted with an unexpected obstacle. “You want me.” It was the most human he’d ever sounded, young and confused. “I can tell.”

“I shouldn’t.”

Jord stood up without being told, and then bowed. “Goodnight, Your Highness. I’m… I’ll send for a servant.”

It was as though a mask had slotted in place on the Prince’s face, hard where he’d been soft, emotionless when he’d just now been the most open Jord had ever seen him.

“You do that,” said the Prince. “And take tomorrow off, soldier. I won’t need your services.”

There was nothing to do but obey. Jord walked out of the room slowly, and once he got to the anteroom he rang the bell that went to the servants’ quarters. It wasn’t long before the Prince’s valet appeared, clearly fresh out of bed and looking surprised. The Prince usually retired early.

“He’s… the Prince requires assistance,” he said. “ He’s had to drink.”

The valet raised his brows at that, but he didn’t seem to find the occurrence as unusual as Jord had. He walked inside the Prince’s rooms and re-emerged from the corridor not that long after, and once he’d left Jord remained alone at the entrance of the Prince’s wing until Roland and Jan came to relieve him.

He went to the barracks and slept like a stone until mid-morning, and when he woke up he spent some time trying to decide if what he remembered had been real or a dream. But Orlant informed him that he did indeed have the day off, and that evening they went into the town and drank and Jord tried not to worry about what the Prince might do when he’d next see him, if he would be angry at having been turned down by a common soldier.

Jord expected coldness, perhaps, or one of those vicious comments the Prince was good at delivering so that they’d hurt like blades. He waited outside the entrance of the royal wing for too long, breathing in slowly and fiddling with his fingers, and by the time he finally found the courage to turn around the corner he found the Prince himself waiting outside his own quarters, looking around in blue-eyed confusion.

“Your Highness,” he said, “I’m sorry, I—”

“You are late.” But he didn’t seem to mind. Jord could have sworn that the Prince had looked — _relieved_ when he’d caught sight of him, and he didn’t want to think too closely about that.

“I almost worried you might have gotten lost,” said the Prince, his voice light. “But it doesn’t matter. Follow me.”

And Jord did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For added tropey deliciousness, please remember that these characters are speaking fantasy French and Jord is _vous_ -ing Laurent the whole time.


	2. Chapter 2

The Prince was very good at pretending nothing had happened. So good, in fact, that Jord might almost have believed that he’d forgotten the entire thing if not for the way he would look to Jord, sometimes, as if that night was a secret they both shared. He felt the weight of those blue eyes lingering on him, and when he looked in turn he’d find the Prince staring back openly, brazenly, with a calm innocent look that always got Jord swallowing nervously and turning his head away before he did something foolish.

When Jord had first met the Prince, he’d thought that he looked far too beautiful to be real — like a statue, or a painting. Jord’s rough hands weren’t made to handle something so refined. But months had passed and the Prince had grown taller, his shoulders broader, his features sharper and more angular. He looked less like a work of art and more like something one could touch, Jord’s hands trembled with it.

The court had noticed, too. The Prince had been sought after for as long as Jord had been in his service, but in the weeks around the Prince’s sixteen birthday the tickle of interest became a flurry, a profusion of dinners and chatter and invitations with no sign of stopping. At night in the barracks, the men of the Guard took bets on which of the courtiers would get the Prince into bed, and Jord turned to the side and tried to not listen. Sometimes they went into details, vivid drink-fuelled speculations that Jord could picture all too well against the backdrop of the Prince’s bedroom, and left him frustrated and aroused and feeling restless. He wished things were different; he wished he’d had half a chance. He wished he’d given in then, and let himself be a drunken mistake.

The Prince didn’t seem to think much of his suitors. He was cold and sardonic at times, alternating between sharp rebukes and the mildest possible encouragement just to keep the game going. He never accepted any offers that Jord heard of, but he seemed to take great pleasure in turning conversations to lurid, explicit details whenever any of his Guard were within earshot.

One morning, while the court was in session, Lord Wilame bowed to the Prince with a flourish and asked if he might do him the honour to go for a ride. He asked it in front of a handful of the nobility, including Councillor Jeurre and Lady Vannes, and later Jord heard that Lord Wilame had a new saddle commissioned from the best leathercrafter in Arles just on the chance the Prince may take him up on the offer. But the Prince merely regarded Lord Wilame coolly through fronded lashes and asked, voice clear as a bell, “And who would be riding whom in this fantasy of yours, my Lord?”

And then the Prince’s eyes found Jord’s, limpid and a bit self-satisfied, and Jord felt his face flush. He couldn’t help but picture it — only it was the two of them in the Prince’s wide bed, and the daylight streamed from behind the curtains.

Then Lord Wilame laughed awkwardly, and the moment was broken. The Prince declined the invitation, but Lady Vannes interjected to ask the both of them to a soiree in her quarters, looking far too amused with the whole thing.

Later, once they were alone, the Prince turned to him and said, innocently, “Jord, I wish to go for a ride. You will accompany me.” He seemed very pleased with himself; and later in the stables he glanced up at Jord — they were almost at a height now, but not quite — and said, “Will you help me mount?”

That would have been a task for a servant, had the Prince ever needed help to climb on the saddle. But he dutifully cupped his hands so that the Prince could lift himself up, and closed his fingers around the tip of the Prince’s riding boot — it was tall and dark brown, not at all like the one he’d been wearing that night, but Jord thought of it all the same. He could feel the warmth of the Prince’s body through the leather, see the ripple of his muscles working as he seated himself on the saddle.

“Let me,” Jord said, guiding the Prince’s foot into the stirrup by the heel.

That got him a reaction. The Prince clearly hadn’t been expecting it; when Jord looked up at him he saw that his cheeks were pink. He felt a small twinge of triumph then, that he’d managed to shake that unflappable mask, and he didn’t stop to ask himself what he was doing.

That night Jord’s dreams were filled with thoughts of smooth skin and white sheets, softer than anything he’d ever touched. He woke up hard in the middle of the night, hot under the covers, and so he rolled over to his side and turned his head into the pillow, biting down on it as he took himself in hand and pictured — the Prince’s bedroom, that evening, when he could have just reached out and undressed him with desperate tugs, and taken him slowly until morning.

He came with a gasp, spilling in his fist, then tried to put the images out of his mind.

The day after he joined the Prince for their usual sparring practice, and midway through it he found himself down in the sawdust, with the Prince on his knees above him. The tip of the Prince’s practice sword was hovering over Jord’s collarbones, his knees spread on either side of Jord’s thighs. He was very close, and the glow of the sunlight dancing on his face took Jord’s breath away.

His hand was halfway between their bodies before he realised what he was doing. He pulled back sharply.

“Your Highness.”

“Jord.” The Prince rose slowly to his feet. “You’re being very dutiful.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment. He sounded boyish, and Jord had to repeat to himself that this was what he was — young and infatuated. It wouldn’t last, and he shouldn’t let himself get caught in it.

When he wasn’t being pursued by interested nobles, the Prince was busy being reprimanded by his uncle. If their relationship had been tense one year ago now it was downright frigid, fraught with cutting remarks and one or two spectacular clashes that had all onlookers unable to look away.

The Regent didn’t approve of the Prince’s behaviour and his contrarian tendencies. The Prince disagreed with some of his uncle’s policies, which he went out of his way to make clear publicly, and seemed to absolutely despise the Regent’s pet, a boy of twelve who had suddenly become ubiquitous at court.

Once, when Huet and Orlant had been gossiping in quiet tones about where the boy might have come from, and why now, the Prince stopped pretending he couldn’t listen and cut in with a scoff. “He’s been here for a while,” he’d said, tone curt. “He said he wouldn’t… he shouldn’t be so public with it.”

The Prince had looked repulsed with the whole thing, but that night when the Regent summoned him to his study he went almost eagerly. The corridors that went through the royal wing were near deserted, something Jord had taken notice of early on — the Captain of the Regent’s Guard never posted men on that side, assuming that whatever intruders might enter the Palace from the gardens would have to go through the Prince’s quarters first.

“Nephew,” the Regent greeted him, gesturing to a stuffed chair, and the Prince was quick to sit down. His uncle regarded him with an indulgent look, and Jord was suddenly reminded of the gossip he’d heard from the maids, how the Regent and his nephew had been close in the years after Marlas — until the Prince had taken back control of his household, and began antagonising the Regent at every turn.

Tonight the conversation seemed civil, almost cordial. The Regent had apparently requested the Prince’s presence to discuss his progress with his tutors — Jord wasn’t surprised to learn that it was beyond what was expected at his age.

“That is very well done,” said the Regent, and the Prince almost preened at the words like a green recruit praised by his first sergeant.

“You know it pleases me to see you do well, Laurent,” he went on. “You are very bright. And perhaps it’s time you put more effort into other things, as well.”

That got the Prince’s attention. He straightened up in his chair, suddenly on alert. “Uncle?”

“I heard you are making arrangements to visit Acquitart. Perhaps while you are there, you might tour the border garrisons.”

“You want me to fight on the border.” The Prince sounded incredulous. The Regent shook his head slowly at the response.

“Not now. But it is your duty to your people—”

“You want me to fight on the border. Who is left to fight there, shepherds and Vaskian criminals? My place is in Arles.” And then, “You called me here just so you could send me away.”

He trailed off. “We are done here.”

“Sit down.”

The Prince’s hands were on the armrests of his chair, slowly pushing himself up. He sat back down.

“I haven’t dismissed you,” said the Regent. “And we were doing so well. Please don’t ruin the whole evening with your childish manners.”

The conversation resumed after that, slightly stilted. The Regent spoke of the Midsummer banquet and the illustrious guests that were expected, Veretians and foreigners alike. He looked to the Prince as he said, “The Council has deliberated that perhaps we should extend an invitation to the kingdom of Kempt. We’ve exchanged favourable correspondence in the last year.”

The Prince looked away. “Are you asking?”

The Regent seemed faintly amused at the thought that he might ask his nephew’s opinion before making any sort of ruling. “I am telling you. But if you objected, just this once, I would listen.”

“No, I — I don’t mind,” said the Prince. “You can invite them.” And then, softly, “Thank you.”

The Regent smiled to himself, pleased.

The rest of the evening went markedly better, although the Prince kept drinking from the wine cup in front of him every time his uncle refilled it. He drank slowly, nothing like that evening in Lord Vincent’s rooms, but Jord still found it profoundly unusual.

The hour had gotten late and the wine carafe was almost empty by the time the Regent rolled his shoulders and brought his hand to his face to rub at the skin under his eyes. From his spot by the door Jord couldn’t help but stare — the Regent, even more than the Prince, was an impenetrable figure. He’d never expected this.

The Prince caught it, too. He opened his mouth as if to speak then closed it again, hesitant. When the words finally came out they were low and mumbled. “Uncle?” he asked. He sounded very young. “Why did you… you said that—”

“Laurent.” Whatever glimpse of humanity the Regent had just shown was relentlessly pushed back into place. “Speak clearly, please.”

“You _know_. You said that— with _him_. You told me…”

“Oh, Laurent.” The Regent sighed audibly, and frowned in a way that was as studied as the calculated looks of the pets of the court. “Time passes. You should know.”

And then, “To bed, now. You’re old enough to find the way by yourself.”

The Prince flinched then, visibly from all the way across the room. His face was drawn up and pale, and he rushed to the door like a child ordered away from the table without dinner. He kept his hands curled into tight fists all the way to his quarters, his shoulders curved with a tension Jord couldn’t understand.

A few days later the Prince decided to delay their sparring session for a detour to the physician’s quarters, where Jord only been once after he’d sprained his ankle last winter. The physician, Paschal, was some twenty years older than Jord, soft-spoken and surprisingly good at holding his drink, but he didn’t often keep company with guardsmen. He smiled when he saw the Prince, but his brows furrowed when he caught sight of Jord.

“Your Highness.” He bowed, gesturing for the Prince to come in. Jord remained at the door. “I assume this isn’t a courtesy visit?”

“No, I…” If Jord hadn’t known better he would have said the Prince was fidgeting. “I need to ask — it won’t take long.” There was something in hesitant tone reminded Jord of the conversation in the Regent’s quarters. Nerves, or perhaps boyish inexperience? He found himself growing curious.

“Can I,” the Prince began, and Paschal nodded immediately.

“Of course. Come on in.”

They disappeared together past the doorway that led to the study, and Jord was left leaning against the door jamb and flickering his gaze between the open window and the pile of leather-bound tomes collected neatly on a shelf. The Prince liked books, that was well known; Jord himself didn’t own any. He had learned how to read as a boy — his father believed all his children should read, least some scribe decided to cheat them out of that season’s earnings — but he hardly ever practised, and it took him a long time to make sense of all the swirls of ink on a page.

He felt, suddenly, painfully inadequate.

Just then, from the other room, he heard the Prince shout.

“What do you mean you can’t? I told you…” The words descended into a furious hiss. It was difficult to make out the words, but the tone of it was clear.

“I have expressed my concern—” That was Paschal, soothing and measured.

“Your Highness, please—”

“Now you are concerned. You’re three years too late,” the Prince said. “And I’m telling you…”

The rest of it was muffled. Jord strained, trying to listen, until he caught himself and felt flush with shame even though there was nobody else in the room. He leaned back against the doorway, crossing his hands over his chest, and waited.

When the Prince returned he was holding a small dark bottle, closed with a cork.

“I’ve diluted that, Your Highness, please don’t attempt—”

“I know.” The Prince didn’t look especially happy. He glanced warily at the bottle. “What about…” He cleared his throat. “Will I have to ask you every time I—”

He stopped suddenly and turned to stare at Jord as if he’d just remembered he was there. Then the Prince went red. There was no other word for it — his face flushed from his cheekbones to his throat, disappearing under the high neck of his clothing. Jord wondered how far it went, all that skin hidden away.

Then the physician cleared his throat, gently. “You could come once a week,” he said. “Or I could bring it to you. There’s three doses in there.”

“All right. I… thank you,” the Prince said. He sounded uncharacteristically subdued.

“Don’t mention it, Your Highness. And if you find the time, perhaps you might find yourself here even before next week.”

He nodded. “I will. Thank you, Paschal.”

And then he left, a renewed skip in his steps.

Three days after that, a letter arrived for Jord from Toutaine, penned in his sister’s hand. The letter was still in his pocket when he reported for his afternoon shift at the city walls, and then in the evening when he went up the Prince’s apartments.

Orlant was guarding the double doors along with Rochert, and they both appeared surprised to see him there. When he knocked on the door, Orlant winked at him.

He found the Prince in his sitting room, reading. The candlelight softened his features into something almost ethereal, tingeing his pale skin gold. When he saw Jord, he stood up to his feet.

“Jord,” he said. “You are not on duty tonight. What it is?”

“Yes, I…” Jord brought one hand up to touch his pocket. “I’m — I must request a leave of absence, Your Highness.”

“A leave of absence,” the Prince said. “Are you… is everything all right?” He spoke each word very carefully, his diction overly precise. “Do you require anything?”

Denise, Jord’s sister, was not usually the type to ask for help. But the end of her pregnancy neared, and now her husband had gotten hurt, and with the harvest nearing they really would prefer to have him at home if he could. If Jord could come home, she’d written, just for the season. He tried to explain, fumbling, his words tangling with one another. “It’s… I need to go to Toutaine. For two months, or three. If you — If I can be spared, there are enough men that it shouldn’t be an issue. Orlant’s got the training of the new men well in hand, and—”

“Jord,” the Prince said.

He stopped.

“You can go, of course. I hope you will be back soon.” He went to his desk and began scribbling something. “I will leave orders with the quartermaster, if you need anything for your journey. You can take this.”

He handed Jord the folded paper, signed with a flourish. “I assume you will leave in the morning?”

Jord had meant to leave in two days, taking some time to organise the journey and request his duties be reassigned to someone else, but he wasn’t about to refuse the Prince’s help in this.

He bowed. “I will,” he said. “I…” _I will be back soon_ , he meant to say, but it sounded preposterous. He swallowed around the words lodged in his throat.

“Safe travels,” the Prince said, and Jord bowed once again and left. 

* * *

Toutaine was further south than Arles but cooler in the summer, all open fields and gentle hills. The farm where Jord had been born stood just as he remembered from his last visit home, two years ago. He’d been in the capital’s militia back then, and he’d sent home regularly half of what he made. Now he sent two thirds; the Prince’s Guard paid better, and they were given food and standard equipment in addition to rooming in the barracks. Jord’s earnings had gone towards buying the old d’Arde farm, but the buildings needed to be repaired and the fields ploughed, and Tèry’s injury had come just at the worst possible time.

His sister shared all of this over a mug of tea, hot enough to scald Jord’s hands. He breathed in the aromatic smell of it, looked into his sister’s eyes, and smiled.

“It’s good to be home.”

Denise was older, twenty-eight to Jord’s twenty-five, and this was her fourth pregnancy. She had two living children, both of them girls, and a good-hearted husband that Jord still thought was too serious for her. Their father lived in the old home as well along with Reul, the youngest of Jord’s siblings. Brice, who was twenty-two and an apprentice blacksmith, lived in a town by the sea in Marches.

Jord had been home all of two days when it became abundantly clear that his life in the capital had been an abundant source of scrutiny not only between his family but among the neighbours as well, and a good chunk of the townspeople of Outa if Reul’s account was to be trusted. That Jord was in the Prince’s Guard — _The Prince’s Guard!_ he heard, in excited whispers, when he went down with his brother to the town to go into the butcher shop — seemed to be a source of endless fascination. He caught children giving him looks and giggling to each other, and the older girl trying to chase them down was staring at him too, blushing.

He should have known. As a boy, Jord had been just as fascinated with the stories he’d heard of the capital at Arles and the Royal Palace, the splendours of the court and the bravery of the men with starbursts on their chest. He was asked several times to show his uniform (which he’d left behind in Arles) and his sword (which had cost him the majority of his savings, and while it wasn’t as fancy as that of an aristocrat, Jord was very attached to it). He was asked if he’d ever seen the Palace (by a boy who went wide-eyed when Jord explained that he lived on the Palace grounds) and if he’d ever fought in a real battle (“Not in a while,” Jord said). He was asked if he’d seen the Prince, and Jord laughed softly to himself and nodded.

“What’s he look like?”

It was the girl from earlier, the one who’d been running after her little brothers in the alleyway behind the butcher’s. She was wearing a light blue apron over her grey dress, and had her hair half-pulled back and running over her shoulders like a cascade of wheat. Her cheeks were pink.

“He has hair like yours,” Jord said, and watched the girl’s face redden further. “And he’s very smart, and good with a sword.” And he had a tongue like a whip, but that would sound like criticism and not as Jord meant it, with rapt admiration. _He’s beautiful_ , he thought, and he looked away.

* * *

“Is there anyone?” Denise asked him one evening while they were sitting together by the fire, shelling peas into a bowl. Jord’s head snapped up.

“What do you mean?”

“Someone who…” She made a gesture. “In Arles. Someone you’re close to?”

Jord snorted a laugh. There were the long hours and the mounting duties, and the threat of court politics always hanging over the Guard. Even if he’d had the inclination to look for anything… “I’m too busy.”

She nodded to herself. “But if you weren’t busy. Who is it? I can tell.”

“No, it’s — it’s not like that.”

She didn’t seem persuaded at all. “I think you’ve got your eyes set on someone. Remont gave you the eyes the other day when they came to visit, and you didn’t even look at him.”

“He didn’t!” Jord said, then paused. “Really? Remont. Well.”

“He’s pretty,” said Denise, helpfully. “You’ve always liked pretty things.” And then, with the tone she used as a child to make fun of him, “Is that boy in Arles pretty?”

“I told you, it’s not—” Jord thought better of it. He looked down to the bowl on his lap, then turned to stare into the fire. “Very pretty. Beautiful. And…” He shouldn’t say this. If felt like lying, laying claim to what couldn’t ever be his. But for all that the men in Arles liked to gossip about the Prince’s looks and the way his he arched in his seat on the saddle, they would have laughed in Jord’s face and called him a hopeless sap if he’d shared how he really felt.

“He’s… intelligent, and loyal and...” He thought of the Prince's caustic rebukes to the nobles at court. “Very sharp. He's too much for me, really.”

“And?” Denise was smiling.

“He's very pretty."

“You’ve already said that.”

“Very pretty,” Jord said. “Even with your tastes you’d have to admit that.”

“ _Even with my tastes—_ ”

“I’ve seen your husband,” Jord said, making her laugh. Tèry was all right, he supposed, but he made even Orlant look delicate. Denise swatted him on the arm.

“Don’t go around badmouthing my husband,” she said. “So, he’s pretty. Nothing else? That’s just like you.”

“It’s not just that.” It had been mostly that, at first. But not for long. “He’s… he’s like a mystery.” It was hard to explain. Had she known the Prince she would have understood, but if she’d known him she would never have believed that the Prince might take an interest in him. “But sometimes I feel I understand him when others don’t, and that’s— I like that.” He treasured those moments like gems, the glimpses of the young man behind the fiercely cold exterior.

“You like him.” That had become painfully clear. Jord didn’t bother replying, and Denise hummed softly to herself. “Is he waiting for you? When you return?”

“I don’t know.” Just the mere idea unsettled him — thinking that the Prince might be waiting for him, like a young lover in a fantasy, scared him almost more than the realisation that he probably wouldn’t. It had been weeks; surrounded by amenities and intrigue, the Prince wouldn’t be sparing Jord a single thought. And when he would return after months the Prince would take one look at Jord, dirty and weary from the road, and ask himself why he’d ever wasted time trying to impress someone like him.

* * *

When Jord returned to Arles, the days were cold and the mornings frosted with hoar. He rode past the city gates with his eyes trailed north, trying to catch a glimpse of the flags waving above the Palace.

He reported to the Prince first thing, his chest heavy with nervousness. He didn’t know what he expected, and he brushed his sweaty palm over the cloth of his jacket while he waited. The Prince was busy with household matters, Radel said, but he would return soon. Jord paced across the room, losing count of his steps, and when the door finally opened he breathed out in surprise.

“Your Highness.”

He’d gotten taller. Taller than Jord himself; Jord’s eyes were almost on a level with the Prince’s lips, pressed into an even line.

“You are back,” the Prince said. “Well. If you need anything in the way of equipment, please report to the quartermasters. Otherwise, you can go ahead and get back on duty roster. I expect you to start within two days.” And then he said, “Dismissed.”

Jord left.

That answered it, he thought to himself. He went down to the barracks and changed into his uniform, and brushed the pads of his fingers over the golden starburst on the left side of the jerkin. He thought of the girl back home who’d asked him what the Prince looked like — beautiful, even more now than he’d been months ago — and then he thought of Remont who Denise thought had been looking at him, and how Jord should have taken him up on it instead of losing himself in stupid fantasies.

He was searching for the quartermaster when he ran into Orlant instead, who greeted him with a slap on the shoulder and a thunderous laugh.

“You,” he said, tapping Jord’s chest with a finger. “Have come back at just the right time. We should celebrate it.”

It was mid-morning. “Good celebration, or bad celebration?”

“Whichever.” Orlant frowned. “Both. It doesn’t matter.”

He managed to talk Orlant into helping him settle back in, and delay the day drinking until at least after lunch. Rochert came along as well, along with smooth-faced Jan who couldn’t have been older than twenty, and in hushed tones they explained that Roland had been kicked out of the Guard just that morning on suspicion of being a spy.

“It was me,” Orlant said. “I saw him… well, I was with Elise. We went out for a stroll, and I saw Roland talking to that big thug the Regent likes to keep around. And they’d gone out of their way — we were at the docks — and I saw them exchanging money. And I thought maybe I should talk to him, see if I could set him straight, but he knew about Elise and I didn’t want…” he trailed off. “So I went to the Prince. It wasn’t pretty.”

No, it wouldn’t have been. Jord could picture the Prince’s face pale with anger, reeling from betrayal. He would have been furious, as icy as a snowstorm. Roland was lucky to have made it out alive. When he’d seen the Prince that morning, he must have just finished up with it. Was that why…

To distract himself, he cleared his throat. “Who’s Elise?”

“Kitchen girl,” young Jan said. He sounded like he’d heard plenty on the topic. “She’s new. Pretty laugh.”

“What about you?” That was Rochert. He nodded in Jord’s direction. “How’s home?

Jord grunted. “The usual.” And then he said, “Bit boring.”

For better or worse, Arles had been calling to him.

He put himself back on the duty roster. He figured he should cut back on his duties and do the same as anyone else — it wasn’t as though he was paid more, anyway. But Orlant laughed when he got a look at it from over his shoulder, and slapped Jord lightly on the back of his neck.

“Are you trying to shirk duty? You know, he won’t like that.”

Jord frowned. “You mean the Prince? I don’t think—”

“I’ve heard him tell the swordmaster that once you got back he’d have a decent sparring partner again,” said Orlant. He pointed to the roster. “Training ring, every other morning, or he may rip your head off. He’s magnificent when he’s pissed, but we’ve had enough of that already to last the whole month, don’t you think?”

Two days later he met the Prince early in the morning as usual, and as they walked to the training ring together it almost felt as though he’d never left. But there was a new rhythm in the Prince’s steps, and he came at Jord with longer reach and slightly unfamiliar moves, and twisted Jord’s practice sword right out of his hand.

“That was well fought,” said the Prince. He was smiling to himself, and the morning light cut a bright stripe across his face. “Again?”

In the end, Jord won one bout out of three. It was the first time the Prince had won the day in one year, since the time he’d caught Jord by surprise and put him on his back. Jord rolled his shoulders and went to wipe his face clean of sweat, and when he raised his head he found himself on the receiving end of that same considering look.

“You’ve been missed,” the Prince said, and Jord’s chest felt suddenly very tight.

* * *

Winter began in earnest, and along with it came the snows. The Prince decided to leave Arles for his estate of Varenne immediately after Midwinter Feast, and brought along his entire household and a handful of noble guests. It had something to do with displeasing the Regent, or so court gossip went, but these days there were always new stories about the Prince’s clashes with his uncle and Jord didn’t bother keeping up with them.

The newest conflict seemed to be about the Prince refusing to do military duty after his seventeenth birthday, as it was tradition. Jord privately thought that perhaps it wasn’t very wise of the Prince to let his Regent cast him as a coward in the eyes of the entire kingdom, but he understood that for the Prince the paths of the southern border would be fraught with the worst kind of memories.

It all came to a resolution some weeks later, just days shy of the third anniversary of the battle of Marlas. They were once again in the Regent’s quarters, but this time his boy-pet was there and the Prince wasn’t bothering to hide his distaste, throwing the boy cold looks that were even sharper than those reserved for his uncle. When called, he hadn’t gone easily — sometimes in the last year the Prince had begun to actively resent the Regent’s invitations, ignoring summons and feigning conflicting commitments just to avoid setting foot in those rooms. It was more than adolescent rebellion; every time they were in the same room together the air turned charged with a tension Jord couldn’t explain.

“Nephew,” the Regent was saying now, “there have been concerns raised within the Council about—”

“Concerns. That sounds awful, Uncle. I am sorry. Perhaps if I’d been there, I could have helped you alleviate them.” The Prince raised his blond head, and looked the Regent in the eyes. “Oh, I forgot. I was denied entrance.”

“And why should you be allowed a say in affairs of state? You haven’t proven yourself yet. You are a child.”

“A child. I wouldn’t think so,” said the Prince, softly. “But, Uncle, you won’t let me prove myself. You call me a child and you want to send me out to fight. It can’t be both.”

“Your brother—”

“Auguste sat at my father’s side in council since the day he turned fifteen, when he deigned to go. We know how that went for me.”

The Regent made to reply, but the Prince went on before he could, holding out one hand as if pleading. “I don’t— I don’t understand. Why you do this. You’re telling me to prove myself, _but you won’t let me_.”

By the end of it, he was almost shouting. The Regent’s mouth turned in distaste. “Control yourself. This is why you can’t be trusted. If you only did your duty, as you should, then…”

“I’ve been doing my duty. Here.”

There was a pause. The Regent’s finger tapped against his chin, tracing the contour of his beard. “Very well.”

“Uncle?” The Prince looked surprised for once, almost as stunned as Jord felt.

“I will agree to defer your military duty. But you will have to show that you are serious about your position, and your future.”

In the silence that followed, the Prince nodded. The Regent relaxed back against his chair, looking relaxed. “Then you will court.”

There was a pause.

The Prince had gone very still. “You can’t be serious,” he said, almost too low for Jord to catch.

“I am. You, nephew, need to start behaving in a manner that suits your position at court. You are insolent, disrespectful, and have embarrassed half the courtiers with your childish ways. This stops now,” said the Regent. “If you want me to start taking you seriously. I am not saying you have to fuck them…” and there Jord saw that the Prince’s back was rigid, as though he might break under the tension. “Although, really, that might do you some good.”

The Prince’s face was white. The Regent went on, “I expect you to be courteous to those who show you attention. You will apologise for your childish antics, and promise to do better from now on. You choose. You can go to dinner with Lord Wilame, or you can go to Delfeur.”

It was an easy choice, really. Even Jord could tell.

Which meant, it was not a choice at all.

* * *

The Prince walked fast on the way back, his boots booming against the floor with every step. Jord struggled to keep up with him.

“I can’t believe that is what he’s doing.”

He said it in a furious hiss. Jord cleared his throat. “Your Highness?”

“He wants…” The Prince took in a breath, visibly bringing himself under control. “He means to keep me away from power. On the border, forgotten, or here inundated by… parties and sycophants and spies. Who’ll be reporting to him on anything I do, obviously.”

Before they’d left, the Regent had expressly requested the Prince’s presence for dinner that evening, and recommended he change into better clothes. He’d put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, just a pat, and the Prince had winced.

Now, he still looked furious. “I hate…” He stopped. Then, “I hate that he’s doing this. As if he’s trying to have a say in who— even now.” His breath was rough, coming in pants. They were walking so fast it was almost a run, and once they reached the entrance to his quarters the Prince opened the door himself before Jord could.

“Inside,” he said. Jord felt tense. He didn’t think; he followed the Prince’s steps through the corridors, all the way to a door he’d only seen once before.

The Prince didn’t need to order him into the bedroom. Jord walked in by himself, his chest tight and his palms sweaty. Once the door had closed behind them the Prince turned to look at Jord and jutted out his chin.

He said, “Do you remember the last time you were here?”

Jord did. The Prince’s eyes were clear, his jaw sharper now than it had been when they’d last been alone like this, all those months ago. And he was staring at him with a look that made Jord’s mouth go dry. Jord wanted him.

“If I told you to kneel,” he said, suddenly. “You’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

The memory came to Jord’s mind unbidden, and he swallowed.

Then the Prince said, “Undress.”

He said it in the same tone of voice he used to command servants and courtiers alike, as if the obedience was his due. Jord thought — his Prince had given him an order.

He undressed. His fingers hesitated over the buttons at his throat, the lacings of his leather jerkin decorated with the Prince’s gold starburst.

He took it off and folded it, keeping it in the crook of his arm. Underneath he wore a shirt, the sleeves heavy and rigid. He unlaced it slowly.

“Just throw that on the floor,” said the Prince. And then, “Keep going.”

“Your Highness—”

“You have your orders, soldier.”

He took off his shirt, conscious of the Prince’s eyes on him. He’d imagined this moment many times; it had been hazy and idyllic, a perfect fantasy. Then there had been the night in the Prince’s room, and Jord remembered the feeling of his knees sinking into the carpet, the shape of the Prince’s lips when he’d looked up at him. He’d brought himself off to the memory of it, once or twice, and then it had begun to feel too painfully real and he’d stopped picturing it at all.

He was hard. The Prince didn’t comment on it, but his eyes were dark and piercing, and Jord flushed. He kicked off his boots and his trousers, and the air was warm against his skin him but he still shivered.

“Go on,” the Prince said, once Jord’s clothes littered the floor and he stood bared in front of him, nothing left to shield himself with.

Jord hesitated, and then the Prince’s lips curled and he felt a spike of arousal ripple through him like a wave. He knelt. The carpet was even softer than it looked against his bare knees, and he felt dizzy with want. He was eye level with the Prince’s legs and he could see the bed behind him, covered in a coverlet of silk with lace cascading down from the sides.

Jord followed the Prince’s eyes down his body. His cock was jutting out from between his legs, hard and flushed against the background of the pretty carpet. The contrast was obscene. Arousal pulsated through him with every breath and he thought about taking himself in hand. Perhaps the Prince would like a show. Perhaps he’d shake his head to himself and click his tongue as he would to an unruly horse, and scold Jord for touching himself before he’d told him to.

He put his hands on his thighs.

“You have a scar on your leg,” the Prince observed, a hint of curiosity in his voice. “Was it from a sword?”

“A spear.” Jord’s fingers brushed the raised skin above his knee. It was about two inches long, and thick, the edges jagged where the wound had been sewn closed. The muscle underneath it was tense, every part of his body rigid with anticipation.

The Prince hummed softly to himself, a sound of approval. He circled him slowly as if he meant to appraise him from all angles, and the shameful thrill of it made Jord squirm on his knees.

Then, “You can get on the bed,” the Prince said from behind him. “Lie down.”

The bed throw, when he sat down on it, was the softest thing Jord had ever touched. He lay down on it and couldn’t stop himself from rubbing his cheek against the cloth, quilted satin that shimmered iridescent blue. He’d never felt more aware of his own body as he was now, lying on silk with his Prince’s eyes on him.

A clinking of glass, and the shadows lengthened around him. The Prince was putting out the lanterns, one by one, and Jord felt a slight twinge of loss at the thought that he wouldn’t get to look at his Prince’s body as it was revealed inch by inch, stare reverently until he’d had his fill.

The room was dark when the Prince returned to the bed, kneeling on the mattress above Jord. There was a rustle of clothing that made something jolt inside of him, and Jord thought about running his hands over newly-uncovered skin, warm to the touch.

“Don’t,” the Prince said, and Jord stilled. “Stay there.”

The sharp edge of the Prince’s tone had him squirming. Jord had been aroused since the Prince had closed his door behind them, then told Jord to undress in a voice that allowed no objections. The Prince’s eyes on him had made it worse and now he was half out of his mind with anticipation, his cock hard and leaking, his heartbeat drumming loud in his ears. He felt ready to crawl out of his skin with need. Ready to feel a touch against his naked skin, for his Prince to do with him whatever he wished.

The Prince’s hand came to rest lightly on his leg, and Jord closed his eyes and breathed through it.

“You’re going to do as I tell you,” the Prince said. “And only that.”

The bed dipped as the Prince stretched out next to him. When he next spoke, Jord felt the barest puff of air against his shoulder.

“Can you do that?” the Prince asked. And then, when Jord nodded, “Answer me.”

“Yes.” His voice was shaking. He tried again. “Yes, Your Highness.”

The touch of the Prince’s hand on Jord’s arm took him by surprise. It was light, barely there, and Jord’s whole body strained towards it.

“You can touch yourself, if you want,” the Prince said, and he left his hand brushing against Jord’s arm as he slowly curled his fingers around his cock. He groaned at the touch, and the Prince made a small sound next to him.

Mildly, he asked, “Is this how you get yourself off when you think about me?”

It was maddening, the way he said it. Jord turned his face into the pillow and arched up his hips to press up into the friction of his hand.

“I thought about you doing this,” the Prince said. “When you kept looking at me. I liked you looking at me.”

“Everyone looks at you,” Jord said, nonsensically. Everyone who’d ever met the Prince wanted him, and now Jord was in his bed, and the rush of it threatened to overwhelm him. With every thrust of his hips into his hand he felt the sensation of the silk coverlet against his skin, like nothing he’d felt before. The Prince kept talking, soft and mild and a bit mean, and Jord writhed on his back with his hand wrapped around his leaking cock, his thumb pressed against the sensitive head. His blood was rushing in his ears, breathing heavy, and it all blended together in a haze of need that had him reeling.

“Keep doing that,” the Prince said, as if there was half a chance he could stop. Then he pulled back slightly, and said, “I want you to fuck me.”

Arousal flared through him like a blaze. Jord let out a sound that was foreign to his own ears, low and desperate, and had to still himself and put his hand away over his hip or he might have come there and then.

“I told you to keep going,” the Prince said, but he sounded well pleased with himself. “Do you think you can fuck me properly? Or are you going to run away again? Perhaps,” he continued, “I should make it an order. That might work.”

And then, softly, he asked, “Isn’t that right?”

Jord shut his eyes tight, and groaned. “Your Highness,” he said, and it sounded _filthy_ , and he thought he would never be able to say those words again without thinking of this moment.

“Come here,” the Prince said. “Get up on your knees.”

He guided Jord to kneel above him with light touches and soft words, and when he circled Jord’s wrist with his fingers and poured a thick fragrant oil into his palm Jord shuddered with anticipation. He was hyperaware of the slide of the silk under his knees, the heavy weight of his swollen balls, the sweet scent of the oil when the Prince finally guided Jord’s trembling hand to rest on his body, down and inside of him.

“Is that good?” he asked, reverent. “Is it…”

Jord knew he had to be careful. The Prince had little patience for touching, it seemed, and he’d had kept on as much of his clothing on as possible, just shoving his trousers down to his calves so he could urge Jord to push his fingers inside of him. His instructions were precise, his voice barely affected, but the soft breaths and small twitches of his body when he forgot himself were the sweetest reward of all.

“That’s enough,” the Prince said, his voice dispassionate, and Jord could’ve almost believed he was as indifferent as he sounded if not for the hitch in his breathing just then, the way he clenched around his fingers like he couldn’t get enough of this. It was nothing like anything Jord had ever done before, with forgotten lovers who suddenly didn’t seem to matter at all.

The first brush of the Prince’s fingers over his stomach made him hiss, warmth spreading inside of him. Jord held his breath as the touch trailed down his belly, and when the Prince’s long delicate fingers wrapped around his cock he closed his eyes and groaned. It felt good, he thought distantly, bucking up into it. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so surprised that the Prince would be good at this. He was good at everything.

“Come on,” he said, urgently, wriggling under Jord’s body so that he could arrange them both the way he wanted. He kicked off his trousers down one leg and placed Jord’s palm on his leg, hitched up to the side.

“Get here,” he said, drawing him in. His hand found Jord’s cock again, teasing the head between thumb and forefinger, lining himself up against it so that all Jord had to do was push and then he’d be inside of him. He swallowed.

“You’re going to think about this tomorrow,” the Prince said. “And after. Every time you look at me.” He was rocking his hips with every word, pressing his oil-slick hole up against the wet tip of Jord’s cock, slow and tantalising. “Do it,” he said. “Fuck me, I told you, do it now—”

When Jord pushed inside, the Prince made a low strangled sound and went soft and pliant under him. He was tight around Jord’s cock, and warm, and Jord couldn’t believe that he was inside his Prince like this, their bodies pressed close, and felt him clench around him like he couldn’t bear to let him go. He pressed down with his hand on the Prince’s leg to keep him open, and heard him moan.

“Do that again,” the Prince said, but his voice was shaking slightly, his usual composure forgotten. He wrapped his leg around Jord’s hip and thrust up against him so Jord could fuck him deeper, and when Jord pulled back the Prince whined, a soft needy sound that went straight to his cock. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted to make him come, Jord thought, and so he steadied himself and thrust in again and again until he felt the Prince’s body tremble underneath him.

Jord closed his eyes in the darkness, panting roughly through his mouth. He was close; his Prince was squirming as he thrust up into his own hand, stroking his cock to the feeling of Jord inside of him, until he groaned softly and spilled between their bodies. Jord pushed inside of him one last time and came with a bitten-off moan, and in the dizziness that followed he thought that nothing else in the world could ever compare to this.

Jord’s head was spinning when he rolled on his back, feeling over-heated and blissful. He thought he should say something, perhaps, but he wasn’t sure he could even if he’d known the right words. He breathed through his nose and spared a short mournful thought for the satin throw, wondering idly how long it’d take to wash it.

Then he felt the Prince stir next to him, sitting up on the bed and tugging at the collar of the shirt he still wore, hitched up his chest. He got up to his feet and moved softly about the room, and when he returned he had lit the same lantern he’d put off earlier. He didn’t seem to mind that Jord could see him now, half-naked and in disarray.

“Get up,” the Prince said. “I need to get dressed.” He smiled wryly, and didn’t look at all amused. “I will be entertaining suitors tonight.”


	3. Chapter 3

That night Jord couldn’t fall asleep. He felt a rush of emotion every time he thought about what had happened — like a shock, running through his whole body. He couldn’t believe it. They’d fucked; he’d lain down on the Prince’s bed in the Prince’s quarters, the Prince’s lean body spread out for his perusal. His head spun every time he thought about it, and he brought himself off again to the memory of the Prince’s hitched breath, his soft little moans.

In the morning, he got up from his bed as if in a dream. He traced familiar steps, feeling oddly light, and when he met the Prince’s eyes he had to look away.

“Your Highness.” The words rested awkwardly in his mouth. He couldn’t stop staring, drinking in the sight of him. He followed the Prince to the training ring, and all he could think about was fucking him.

He lost all of his bouts.

After the third one the Prince pulled back slightly, the tip of his sword scraping lightly over Jord’s collarbones, and he couldn’t hold back a shiver. The Prince threw back his head, and laughed.

“Really,” he said, and the sight of him like this was a thrill. “That was a poor showing on your part.”

“I know, Your Highness, I’m—”

“Thinking with your cock,” said the Prince, and Jord felt his face flush scarlet. His head whipped around, to check — but of course they were alone. This was the Prince’s personal training room; even the rest of the Guard would only use the outer chambers.

When Jord turned back to the Prince, he had on a pensive look.

“Rematch?” he offered. “Two days from now. You’ll get another chance to prove yourself.”

Two days later, the Prince spent most of his day trapped in Councillor Jeurre’s quarters for a luncheon that included thirteen courses and more than thirty guests. Jord’s presence was not required, but he caught a glimpse of the Prince sitting next to Jeurre’s nephew, face carefully blank and shoulders rigid in a way that betrayed unspeakable frustration.

It was late afternoon when the Prince left, and he didn’t seem at all surprised to see Jord in place of his scheduled sentry. They walked back to the Prince’s rooms and Jord expected — something like last time, perhaps.

Instead he found himself sat on a stuffed chair with his trousers shoved down to his ankles, the Prince straddling his thighs. It was dark in the room and Jord couldn’t see, but he could feel the shape of the Prince’s hip under his hand, the silky skin there.

The Prince pulled back. “Don’t touch me,” he said, and Jord bit down on the moan of protest that threatened to spill from his lips. His arms trembled at his sides.

The Prince was rocking slowly above him, thigh brushing lightly against the swollen head of his cock. He had one arm stretched behind him — opening himself up, Jord thought. He was about to be inside of him. He wanted to touch, to feel it under his hand. He wanted to reach out and put his fingers where his Prince was working himself open so Jord could fuck into him. It was heady.

“Don’t.”

He didn’t. But it was difficult to obey, and he made a noise like a whimper in his throat.

And then, in the darkness, the Prince said, “Do I have to tie your hands up?”

That was — Jord couldn’t help it. He felt a rush of blood that went straight to his cock. He groaned, thrusting his hips up, and the Prince laughed softly. That made it worse.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he said, standing up, and in the end he tied Jord’s arms behind his back with his own belt and rode him until he felt as though he might burst. He couldn’t touch and he couldn’t see, but he could talk, needy pleading sounds that spilled out of him until he had nothing more to give.

Afterwards the Prince stood up and wandered further inside the apartment leaving Jord to catch his breath, head hanging limply in front of him. When he came back he held a candle and a cup of water, and Jord watched the way the golden light flickered on his face. He trailed his hand between Jord’s hair and tugged his head forward so he could get to the belt, and then after he’d untied his arms he handed it to Jord with a small smirk.

“Put that on,” the Prince said, and Jord laced up his trousers and put the belt back in, and his fingers trembled as he closed the buckle.

He left on shaking legs.

* * *

In the weeks that followed there were more dinners and spectacles and parties, and Jord often found himself summoned afterwards.

With time, he learned what the Prince expected of him. The Prince seemed taken with getting Jord off as many times as possible, with his hand or by rubbing against him or making Jord touch himself; and he liked to run his hands across Jord’s body and make him feel every single touch. He didn’t seem to enjoy being touched unless Jord was fucking him, pressing him against the sheets with his head turned to the side and his mouth slack open. And sometimes he liked to hear himself talk, with the same tone of voice he used to give orders to his assembled men in the courtyard, and Jord heard that voice in his dreams every night as he rolled into sleep.

Once, the Prince took both Jord's belt and his uniform sash and tied both his hands to the headrest, then stripped him naked with a dexterity that Jord would never have expected of him. Then he stretched out on the bed, mostly dressed, and propped his head up on his elbow as he trailed a finger lazily down Jord’s chest, his stomach, circling the root of his swollen cock. It was the first time he kept some light in the room while they fucked, and Jord watched his Prince watch him, looking intent. The Prince applied to learning Jord’s body as he would to one of his lessons, all bright eyes and teasing touches, frowning slightly like he did when he was trying to focus on something. Once or twice he bent his head and pressed his mouth to the skin there, and Jord almost sobbed at the feeling of it.

“Quiet,” the Prince said. He didn’t even look at Jord’s face, busy as he was exploring the rest of him. “Can you do that?” The touch of his hand was light on Jord’s cock, circling it loosely. It was maddening.

He nodded, and he didn’t speak.

Jord came twice that afternoon, spilling in the Prince’s hand among those silken bedcovers, and once his Prince was done with him he remained laying on the bed with his arms spread around him, staring at the tall ceiling. The Prince still had his clothes on.

Then he caught a glimpse of the sun through the window curtains, and swore.

“Hurry up and get dressed,” he told Jord. “We are going to the stables.”

Lord Wilame was there as well, and he presented the Prince with the refined saddle he’d had made a year ago, skilfully embossed and lacquered with care. The Prince accepted the gift as if it was nothing less than what he deserved, and made polite conversation. He suggested a race, which he won effortlessly, and while they waited for Lord Wilame to catch up he turned to Jord and whispered, “He’s dreadfully boring, isn’t he?”

But he seemed to like the new saddle quite a lot, and when they returned to the Palace he gave the stableboy careful instructions to have put it with the rest of his riding equipment.

Jord’s duties didn’t extend to the evening, and so he went to the mess while Huet escorted the Prince and Lord Wilame to dinner. The Prince didn’t acknowledge his departure, but Jord thought he felt the weight of those eyes on him as he walked away.

The next time they sparred, he won easily.

It may have been a coup of luck, or perhaps the Prince was just having a bad morning, but his sword was out of his hands and on the ground with barely a flick of Jord’s wrist. The Prince clearly didn’t like that; he tried to attack him with bare hands, like Jord had taught him, but he was leaner and slower and not as good as fighting dirty as he thought he was.

In the end, Jord’s hand closed around the Prince’s wrist; he brought it behind his back and twisted, and with the other he grabbed the Prince’s hip from behind to keep him still.

“Yield,” Jord said, his voice low.

And then he threw his head back, just in time to avoid the Prince’s pretty blond head hitting him on the nose. He tightened his grip.

“Yield,” he said, again, and tightened his fingers around the Prince’s wrist. His thumb brushed over a sliver of skin there, warm and soft. He was intimidatingly conscious of their position; the shape of the Prince’s hip under his hand, the Prince’s body half-squirming against his, breath rough with exertion. He could see the pale curve of the Prince’s neck, unburdened by the high collars he usually wore.

He wanted to put his lips there, he thought, vividly, picturing how the Prince’s skin would look with the marks of his mouth all over it. He could feel himself growing hard. Until now, Jord had never initiated this — the Prince would order him to his rooms when he had need of him, and direct him to undress, and put his hands on him. It was good; it was more than Jord could have hoped for. But now he bent his head to brush his lips against the Prince’s bare neck, thumb brushing over his pulse.

“Can I,” he asked. “Can I, Your Highness, please.”

The Prince turned in Jord’s arms, and their noses bumped together. It was oddly intimate.

Jord received a long look from behind golden eyelashes. “My arm hurts.” And then, before he could speak, “That was a good grip. Will you teach me?”

“Of course.”

Their bodies were pressed close, front to front. The Prince was hard, too, and he was rubbing his cock against Jord’s, achingly slow. His mouth was very close, and for a moment Jord thought he might kiss him. His breath was tight in his chest.

Then he pulled back.

“Not here,” he said, and Jord nodded. He followed the Prince back to his chambers and he couldn’t stop staring at the lines of his body under the loose cottons.

The windows in the Prince’s bedroom were open, breeze and sunlight flowing inside. Dressed in simple sparring clothing instead of his severe lacings, the Prince looked like a fantasy.

He didn’t move to draw the curtains, as Jord had expected he would. Instead he remained standing in the middle of the room, and looked at Jord.

“You can, if you like,” he said.

Jord frowned. “Your Highness?”

“You asked, just now. In the training ring. What is that you wanted?”

His voice held a measure of interest. Jord took him in, a boy with the face of a marble statue. He licked at his lips. “I want to touch you.” And then, because he could hardly believe he would be allowed, he said, “Your Highness.”

The Prince licked his lips. “You can.”

To Jord’s ears, the Prince’s breath sounded a little short. “You’ve been thinking about this,” he said. “Touching me.” Jord nodded.

“How long?”

Jord felt heat creep up his neck. His mouth felt dry; he swallowed. “Years.”

The Prince looked satisfied at that, lips curling into a small smile. “You can,” he said, again, and Jord’s body moved of its own will.

His hands found the Prince’s hip, the curve of his back under the shirt. He tugged at it and his fingers found skin, and he walked them slowly to the bed until the back of the Prince’s legs hit the mattress.

Jord pushed him to sit on the bed and he knelt, as he’d done so long ago. Then he pushed away all of the Prince’s clothing, leaving him bare, and put his mouth on the Prince’s body with a soft sigh of relief. Jord sucked a path above the Prince’s knee, pressing kisses over the fine skin of his thigh, feeling the lean muscle underneath. He licked across the crease of his thigh, and felt the Prince go very still. His cock was hard and flushed between his legs, and Jord turned his head and swirled his tongue over the tip.

The Prince groaned, and the sound made Jord’s beat faster. He squirmed on his knees, and turned his head so he could lick a strip across the shaft. Then he pulled back, sat on the bed and tugged the Prince’s shirt over his head, and he laughed, breathless, at the sight of that golden hair spread dishevelled against the covers.

Jord kissed the Prince's shoulder, like he’d wanted to do in the sparring room. He sucked a path across his collarbone and up to the crook of his neck, and heard the Prince's sharp intake of breath. He traced the Prince’s sides with the palms of his hands and then ran his mouth down to the Prince’s stomach until he closed his lips, and sucked. He felt the Prince’s body shake under him, all those minute shivers and soft sounds, and when Jord looked up to glance at his face he found him slack-mouthed and flushed, eyes closed.

He rolled him to lay on his front. The Prince went easily, almost boneless, and Jord bent his neck and pressed his lips to the curve of his spine, kissing the skin there. He kissed lower and lower still, tracing that smooth back with his lips and his tongue, and felt the Prince’s body tremble slightly. Then Jord bent his head and licked a wet strip across his hole, and the Prince groaned and thrust his hips against the covers. He reached behind with one hand and grasped a lock of Jord’s hair, tugging on it, pulling him away.

The Prince half-turned on the bed, pushing up on his elbow, and his eyes found Jord’s. His face was flushed and sweat pearled along his hairline, a familiar small frown etched between his brows.

“You’ve been thinking about— this,” the Prince said, and he swallowed. “For years?”

Jord’s face was very warm. He was hard in his trousers, the pressure of arousal building inside of him. His lips were dry when he tried to speak, his breath ragged.

Then the Prince tugged on his hair again, almost painfully, and let himself fall on his stomach. “Get back to it,” he said. Jord licked his lips, and did as he was told.

He grabbed the Prince's hips with his hands and licked into him, then pressed two of his fingers where his tongue had just been and worked him open slowly, savouring every little whimper, the slow rocking back of the Prince's hips into Jord’s hand. He swallowed around the Prince's cock and fucked his hole with his fingers, over and over until he was coming inside Jord’s mouth with a choked groan, shuddering all over.

When Jord pulled away, the Prince didn’t move. Normally he would be on his feet as soon as he decreed that they were done, but now he lay half-curled up with his eyes closed, and hardly reacted when Jord shook his shoulder.

“Your Highness.” He cleared his throat. “Should I— should I go?”

The Prince rolled on his back. He was completely, gloriously naked, all lean limbs and unmarred skin. His pretty cock rested spent against his thigh, and Jord wanted to suck it again. His own cock was hard inside his too-tight trousers, his balls swollen and aching, and Jord thought longingly of the Prince’s voice ordering him to get himself off so that he could watch.

And then the Prince spoke, shaking him out of his fantasy. “Go.” His voice was oddly hesitant. “And find Radel, and tell him I am indisposed for the morning.” And then, “You can come back here when you’re done, if you’d like.”

Jord would like it. He drank some water and composed himself, then found Radel and explained that the Prince would remain in his rooms for the morning. He weathered the suspicious look the man shot him as if wondering whether Jord had indisposed the Prince himself through malicious means. Then he returned to the Prince’s bedroom and saw him turned on his side under the covers, the rise and fall of his chest visible even from a distance.

He stopped at the doorway, staring. Jord didn’t know what this was, if he’d done or said something he shouldn’t have, so instead he focused on the curve of the Prince’s spine where it disappeared under the sheet, the fall of his hair against the pillow.

“Are you going to remain there the whole morning?”

The words shook him out of his haze. Jord walked slowly to the bed.

“Do you want me to…”

“Since you are here,” the Prince said, and then he sat up among the pillows and fixed Jord with that expectant look that meant he should provide him with a show. His eyes were reddened, as though he’d been rubbing at them.

Jord fumbled with his clothes under the Prince’s gaze, face warm. His cock was still half-hard. He caught the Prince’s eyes lingering on it, face studiously blank, until he turned away again and pressed his face to the pillow. With some hesitation, Jord climbed into the bed. He’d never done this before — usually they’d fuck on top of the covers, or push the sheets down to the bottom of the bed; but this, lying down and wrapping the sheets over his naked body, felt strangely intimate.

He cleared his throat. “Is everything alright?”

The Prince laughed, but it was a choked sound. He didn’t reply. Instead, “It would be a waste if you didn’t fuck me now. Come here.”

Jord frowned, but he shifted under the covers until their bodies touched. He fucked him on the side, with the Prince’s leg hitched up so he could thrust inside of him, and the Prince reached back with his hand to grab a fistful of Jord’s hair. It stung a bit when he tugged on it, just to urge him on, and Jord pressed dozens of little kisses to the back of Prince’s shoulder and he couldn’t believe he was being allowed this.

Afterwards, the Prince pushed him down into the pillows and took some time to stare at Jord like this, hardly blinking. Then he leaned down, and pressed his lips to the corner of Jord’s mouth.

Jord didn’t move. He didn’t dare. He thought — if he disturbed this now, it would be over. His Prince was kissing him, brief and light, and Jord felt a small huff of air brush against his nose. It tickled. He thought his heart might burst out of his throat, beating impossibly loud.

The Prince kissed him again, full on the mouth this time. His lips were soft. Jord closed his eyes, and willed himself to remain still.

It ended all too soon. The Prince pulled back, and Jord opened his eyes just in time to catch him frowning slightly before it was smoothed away.

He made to turn away, and Jord grabbed him. He didn’t think. It was… Jord wasn’t ready for this to end, not yet, and the Prince himself had invited him into his bed. He could have this.

Jord kissed him, expecting resistance. He was ready to let go immediately, to pull back and apologise, but instead the Prince’s lips opened under his own, sweet and eager, a bit hesitant.

He kissed him again and again, and he never wanted it to end.


	4. Chapter 4

News of the Prince’s courting had spread. His quarters were full of gifts that he wasn’t allowed to refuse, and a great part of his time at court was spent at various social functions while the Regent ruled. The rest was spent sitting in on Council sessions and the Prince seemed to consider that a tolerable, if frustrating, bargain.

Early into the summer an embassy from Patras arrived in Arles. From court gossip, Jord understood that Patras had been more receptive than expected to the suggestion to enter into talks, which was a pleasant surprise to most of the Council. From the Prince, Jord learned that the embassy was lead by Prince Torveld, a military man and strategist on leave from the Vaskian border, and that the Prince had been allowed to be a part to the talks on condition he show Prince Torveld around the Palace.

By now, Jord was well accustomed to the spectacle that the Prince’s suitors made. He understood that they were taken by the Prince and superficially charmed by his looks, and he couldn’t fault that. Jord didn’t think many of them were likely to withstand the first impact with the Prince’s sharp edges and, besides, the Prince was far too stubborn to take an interest in anyone his uncle set in front of him.

Prince Torveld was different. He was refined and accomplished, and the Prince sat next to him at dinner at dinner and discussed the politics of the Empire, looking engrossed in the conversation. Torveld asked questions about the court at Arles and the Prince replied with a milder version of his usual wit. Torveld threw back his head and laughed then, and the Prince looked almost self-satisfied. That, more than anything, set an ugly storm inside his chest.

Jord did not make illusions about himself. He knew that the Prince found him valuable, and probably even liked him. Sometimes he reminded himself of how the Prince could have had anyone he wanted and yet he’d chosen Jord, and he was filled with a sense of wonder he couldn’t explain. And he never spared a thought for all the courtiers who tried to get the Prince into bed, except that their attentions would only get the Prince to order Jord to follow him to his rooms and fuck, which Jord certainly didn’t mind.

Torveld was definitely trying to get the Prince into bed, just like all the others, but he did so with a lazy tenacity and a supreme amount of confidence. He told jokes that the Prince seemed to enjoy, and spoke with assuredness about faraway places Jord had barely heard about. He was forty-four years old to the Prince’s seventeen, which hardly mattered at court, and certainly Jord was in no position to say anything, but the contrast of the Prince’s delicate features and Torveld’s well-kept beard reminded Jord sharply that the Prince was truly just a boy, and boys were easy to impress.

He thought about escorting the Prince back to his quarters, but this time Torveld would be there too, holding the Prince’s arm in the corridors while Jord followed on their heels. He thought about watching them from behind as they talked, their heads close together. And then they would reach the Prince’s wing and Jord would remain outside, as it was his place, patrolling the corridors while they went to bed.

He would hate every moment of it, Jord thought, filled with a jealousy he had no right to feel.

He felt the weight of the Prince’s eyes on him, blue and knowing.

When the Prince retired, he did so alone. Jord tried not to react, but it was hopeless — he knew some of his relief must have shown on his face. He wondered if the Prince would berate him for it, mock him for daring to overstep.

Instead, the Prince but a glass bottle in his hand.

“Drink this.”

Jord studied it cautiously. It looked like one of the bottles that came from the physician’s office. He’d seen the Prince drink from this, or one exactly like it, once or twice after court receptions, before he ordered Jord to lie down on the bed.

“What is it?”

“You will like what it does.” The Prince was staring, expectant. Jord drank; it tasted like nothing in particular. He put the bottle back on the bedside table.

He cleared his throat. “What does it—”

“Something you could use,” the Prince said. “Especially now.”

He inclined his head. “Earlier, at dinner. You could hardly control yourself, could you?”

Jord flushed.

“You couldn’t have made it more blindingly obvious that you wanted to fuck me. What were you picturing?” the Prince asked, in that mild voice that always preceded danger. “Right there on the table, with the court watching? On the balcony, perhaps. Or, would you have liked to be under the table while I spoke to Torveld? Like a pet.”

With every word, Jord could feel his face turn redder. It was warm in the room, with all the candles. The Prince usually blew those off when they were alone like this, but now he seemed to enjoy looking at Jord as he spoke.

“It is a good thing that nobody was looking,” the Prince went on. “You kept staring at me like you meant to tear my clothes off in the middle of dinner.”

“I wasn’t…” Jord said, weakly. That wasn’t what he’d been thinking about — he hadn’t let himself, would never do that — but he was certainly picturing it now. “It wasn’t like that,” he said. “Your Highness.”

“You couldn’t keep your eyes off me.”

“That is my job,” Jord said. No sooner had the words left his mouth that he felt a renewed surge of heat bloom on his face.

“Jord,” the Prince said. He’d brought his hand to his mouth, as if to hold back a laugh. “That’s one way to look at it, I suppose.” And then, “We all know how good you are at taking orders.”

His eyes were very bright. Jord felt overheated. A breeze was coming in from the open windows, but it had been an unusually warm week, and even the wind did very little.

The Prince had sprawled on the chair where he sometimes made Jord sit so he could ride him. He had one knee pulled up, cheek resting on it. Jord stood in the middle of the room, squirming from the heat and the Prince’s heavy gaze. He was unsure whether to break stance. The collar of his uniform jerkin was too tight.

Jord brought his hands to his neck and unfastened one of the buttons there, then another. The Prince’s eyes followed.

Sitting as he was, the cloth of the Prince's trousers was pulled tight over his hip and his thigh. Jord thought about running his hand there. Then he pictured wrapping that leg around his body, lifting him up and pushing inside of him like—

“What are you thinking?”

He found the Prince staring at him; eyes wide, a small smile on his lips. Jord wanted him desperately.

“I can guess. Perhaps you’re wishing I’d let you fuck me at dinner, after all. Or in the sparring room the other day, when I beat you. Or—”

“I’m thinking about fucking you against the wall,” he heard himself say, his voice rough. He didn’t know what had come upon him. It was the heat, and the Prince’s voice, speaking like this

“I didn’t mean…” he said. “I don’t—”

“Against the wall,” the Prince said. “Well.” He half-turned to glance at the wall behind him, bare of hangings, tinted a delicate gold. He looked back at Jord. “We can do that.”

Jord felt feverish with heat, and unspeakably aroused all of a sudden. The room was spinning around him.

“It’s the drink.”

The Prince’s voice, low and deep, went straight his cock. Jord finished opening his jerkin, and threw it to the floor.

“Was it hakesh?” He’d heard about the Vaskian brew from Orlant, after the Prince had taken him along to visit the clanswomen. His cock had filled up in his trousers, and the pressure of the cloth against it felt unbearable. He stood up, unbuckling his belt — the Prince had tied up his hands with that belt, several times. The memory of it assailed him now, overwhelming.

“It’s not hakesh. Akielons make it,” the Prince was speaking, as if from far away. “They give it to pleasure slaves sometimes, so they might best please their masters.” That sounded obscene. Pleasure, the word caught in his thoughts. Was that what his Prince expected of him? Jord would do it. He wanted to put his hands on him, mark him with his lips and his teeth. The Prince wouldn’t need a trained Akielon courtesan or a pet of the court if he’d only let Jord—

His trousers were tangled around his ankles, he noticed, distantly. He’d taken them off without unlacing his boots. Jord sat back down on the bed and started tugging at the laces, watching the Prince watch him. He was still in his chair, impeccably dressed for dinner with a foreign envoy, but his cheeks were flushed pink and his cock was hard in his trousers. Jord drank in the sight of him, breathing roughly.

“Did you…” It was hard to speak like this, hard to shape his thoughts into words when all he felt was need. “I saw you drinking it once.”

“I didn’t take it.” For a moment, the Prince looked almost contrite. “I wanted…”

He stood up, and walked to Jord in the centre of the room. His hair brushed against the crook of Jord’s shoulder as he leaned in to speak into his ear. “I want you,” the Prince said. “To rip off my clothes like you would if Torveld was here watching. And then I want you to fuck me.” His breath was hot against his skin and Jord shivered. “Hard. Like you’ve always wanted to do, and never let yourself. I want…” His voice was shaking. Jord could feel the Prince’s cock press against his hip, hard as a rock under those fancy clothes. “I want to feel it for days.”

He pulled back, and Jord stared at him. His eyes were very dark, pupils wide, his lips pink as if he’d bitten into them.

“Can you do that?”

He could. He wanted it, with every fibre of himself; Jord tugged at those pretty clothes and worked open the laces until he could touch the skin underneath. He pressed the Prince down the bed and breathed in the smell of his skin, and that was enough — he thrust his hips, grinding their cock together, and couldn’t have stopped even if he’d wanted. His orgasm took him by surprise, running like a shook through his oversensitive body.

He let out a ragged breath, shivering. That feeling of want hadn’t gone away; his hands were still shaking, his cock still painfully hard.

His shoulder was stinging slightly where the Prince had dug his nails into it. “Come on,” he said. “Keep going.”

The night went by in a feverish haze. The Prince let Jord work him open; first with his mouth then with his oiled fingers, until he was shivering beneath him, groaning with every breath. It was overwhelming — his Prince bent over in front of him, hole slick with oil, obscenely exposed, like a two-coppers whore. He pressed a trembling, reverent kiss to the Prince’s back, up his spine. The Prince squirmed under him.

“Get on with it,” he hissed. “Harder.”

He fucked him on the bed the first time, and once more against the golden wall. They ended up sprawled in a tangle of limbs on the carpet afterwards, and he kissed a path down the Prince’s body and sucked his cock until he came shuddering into Jord’s mouth. Then the Prince climbed into Jord’s lap and sank on him again, gripping his hips and biting on his shoulder if he thought Jord wasn’t performing to his satisfaction. He came before Jord did, then urged him to the bed so Jord could lay on top of him and fuck into him lazily, with slow thrusts and boneless limbs, sweat cooling over their bodies.

“Jord,” the Prince said, and directed him to reach out and retrieve the small oil jar they’d left on a corner of the large mattress. Jord wondered for a moment what he meant to do with it, until he felt it — the Prince’s fingers pushing into him, opening him up as he fucked into the Prince’s body, searching inside of him until he shuddered and came, utterly spent.

* * *

He slept.

* * *

Jord woke up blinking, light shining through the open windows. He was in the Prince’s bed still, and the Prince was — he raised his head and looked around, head spinning. His eyes found the Prince at his desk, clad in a pale robe and eating into an apricot. Jord sat up with a jolt.

“It’s early,” said the Prince. And then, “Don’t worry. My servants are much more discreet that my guards.”

“I know.” Jord had been seen many times by now, coming and going within the Prince’s inner quarters in the evenings. But he’d usually leave afterwards, and resume his duties. He’d never spent the night in the Prince’s bedroom before, especially not when he should have…

“Your Highness, I’m…”

The Prince shifted in his seat, crossing his ankle over his knee. He bit into his apricot, his eyes bright and clear.

“There’s a washbasin in the dressing room,” he said, clearly settling in to watch.

Jord’s legs shook when he got up from the bed. He felt wrung out, his limbs sore, his back aching from when yesterday—

His head spun towards the wall, and the carpet underneath, and he swallowed. His cock was hard again, and the thought of getting himself off was both enticing and exhausting.

He went to get dressed, feeling the Prince’s eyes on him as he left. He returned to find him standing in the middle of the room, waiting expectantly.

“Will you help me get dressed?” he said. “Since you are here.”

The Prince could have sent for a servant anytime, Jord did not say. The clothes he’d chosen were light and simple, suitable for a lazy morning spent in the solitude of his rooms; and he could have easily dressed himself if he’d wanted, but Jord patiently held the shirt open so the Prince could slip inside of it, and smoothed the cloth over his legs.

There were small bruises over his hips and Jord thought — he’d made those; he’d put his fingers there and pushed. Now he brushed the skin there, and swallowed.

“I didn’t—”

“I like it,” the Prince said, defiant, and that was all.

He flung his pale wrist at Jord’s face. “Do up the laces, soldier.”

Jord’s fingers struggled with the tiny laces, but the Prince didn’t seem to mind. He gave Jord one of those long looks and told him he was free to go, and Jord bowed and left the rooms just in time to pretend he’d been on duty for the whole night.

He met up with Huet and Orlant in the mess room, and they ate side by side at one of the tables. There were eggs and brown bread and apples, and once they were done Orlant invited him for a spar. Then he paused.

“Wait. I forgot, you’re just off duty, right?” he said. “It’s fine if you don’t—”

Jord cut him off. “I can spar.”

He needed something to distract himself from all the thoughts running wild in his mind, and so he went to the yard by the armoury — that looked nothing like the Prince’s training ring — and resolved to swing around a practice sword until his muscles gave out.

He’d forgotten to account for last night. His first bout was an abysmal poor showing; his second was a disaster.

“I told you that you should’ve gone to sleep,” said Orlant. “A child with a stick could beat you.” Jord didn’t think it was quite that bad, but he sat down gratefully on one of the benches. His thighs burned. Afterwards, Huet went to report for his shift and Jord and Orlant went to the barracks to change, while Orlant kept talking about Elise the kitchen girl as if they weren’t in the middle of the Palace where anyone might listen.

Jord made a face as he crouched down to find a clean shirt, shrugging off his old one without bothering with the laces.

Behind him, Orlant let out a low whistle.

“What is it?”

He turned around, straight into Orlant’s amused stare.

“What?”

“You’ve got—” Orlant raised one hand to touch his own shoulder, the right one, near the back of his neck. “Right there.”

Jord touched his own shoulder. It was tender.

“Is that _a bite_ ,” Orlant said, all amused disbelief. “Let me see.” He was laughing. Jord let him have his fun, then pulled back so he could put his shirt back on.

“Satisfied?”

But Orlant was still talking. “That looks fresh,” he said. “Just when did you find the time to—”

He said, in a different voice, “You were on duty last night. And before that we took the inventory in the armoury, and I know you were with Rochert in the morning. And I would remember if you had that two nights ago.”

Jord watched his face go from intrigued to puzzled to stunned. “You didn’t.” And then, “ _Jord_. You son of a bitch.”

Uselessly, “It’s not—”

“Jord.” He sounded utterly incredulous. “ _Really?_ ”

“I don—”

“Explain it to me.” He sat himself down heavily on Jord’s bed, uninvited. “How long?” And then, “You’re insane, you know? You could lose your post for this.”

This was rich coming from Orlant, who courted dismissal every time he stepped out for a walk with one of the serving girls or washerwomen. In Jord’s case… a Prince was well within his rights to bed whomever he wished, of course, but it would still cause quite the scandal with how sought after Prince Laurent was, how famously cold. If the Regent got wind of it, Jord might end up kicked from the capital in disgrace. He knew this, and it didn’t matter.

To Orlant, he said, “You’re not going to tell anyone.”

Impatient, “Of course I’m not going to tell anyone. But you need to tell me. How did it even—” That incredulous tone was back. “What, did he just come up to you one day and said he was bored?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you not know. You were there.”

“I don’t.” And then, “I can’t talk about this.”

“I’m not going to tell. As if I wanted to,” Orlant said. “I’d lose money. I had one florin on Lord Sevrin getting there first.”

Lord Sevrin was Councillor Jeurre’s nephew. Jord snorted. “You bet _gold_ on that?”

Orlant shrugged, almost defensively. “He’s the youngest of the bunch. I thought… Well, clearly the Prince doesn’t care about that.” A slow grin spread through his face. “So. How does—”

“Orlant,” he said, sharply. “Shut it.”

“If you refuse to share anything—”

“I won’t,” Jord cut in firmly.

“…Then I’m going to picture it,” Orlant continued. “Was it in the sparring room? I’ve always thought there was something about that swordfighting.” And then, “What it’s like, sleeping in the Prince’s bed? I bet it’s quite a change.”

He looked around to the empty beds in the room, low and thin, made up neatly with sensible blue-grey covers.

Jord sat down on his, wincing slightly, still sore from last night. He put his shirt back on.

“I,” he said, firmly, “am going to sleep for a few hours. Wake me up at midday.”

And then he stretched out on his aching back and closed his eyes. His body was tired, but his mind was whirring, and he kept trashing around in the bed looking for a more comfortable position. It was nothing like the large, silk-covered spread of the Prince’s bed.

Eventually, he fell asleep.

* * *

The Patran delegation left not long after. There were a handful more dinners where Torveld of Patras sat at the Prince’s side, making intent conversation. The Prince appeared just as interested as he’d been during that first evening, impeccable in his laced-up clothing. Jord didn’t think about the marks on his body, when he’d made Jord help him dress.

Instead, he watched the Prince drink from his goblet and wondered how much of his tight self-control was an act, if his isolation weighed on him. The Prince kept himself away from the revelries of the court with the resolve of an ascetic, but he kept a stack of foreign drugs in his bedside table. Did it get tiring, to keep himself in check day after day? He was young and lonely, in a court full of dangers.

It wasn’t Jord’s place to speculate. He kept his thoughts to himself.

The week after the Prince’s retinue left for the south of Vere, journeying to Acquitart. The Prince liked to travel light and fast, and he seemed enthusiastic to be leaving. On the eve of their departure, Councillor Guion was heard remarking that it was a shame that their Prince was in such a hurry to go summering on the border, but wouldn’t lift a sword to defend it. The Prince brushed it off, but the set of his shoulders was tense when they left Arles, his grip tight on the reins.

There was little privacy on the road. Even when they weren’t camped they would be guests at the keep of some local noble, who couldn’t wait to host the Prince and bask in the presence of royalty. The Prince’s evenings were always busy, his rooms filled with unfamiliar servants. Jord remained well away, and felt like an imposter. These country lords and ladies would feast the Prince, offer him their best rooms and the attentions of their pets. Away from Arles, and from the interferences of his uncle, the Prince might even accept. Jord kept to himself. It was a different world that the Prince moved in, one Jord could see and touch, but where he would never belong.

They were halfway through the journey when Orlant took pity on him and dragged Jord to a tavern. He sat him down on a bench quite a distance from the fireplace, put a mug of spirit in his hands, and said, “You’re ridiculous.”

Jord drank, and didn’t say anything. Orlant didn’t seem to take the hint.

“Stop sulking. It’s embarrassing. You’re sitting here feeling sad for yourself and lamenting your good fortune.” And then, “Don’t go anywhere. I’m going to get us more to drink.”

When he returned, it was with the whole bottle. He poured some for himself as well, then drowned it down. “You really have it bad, do you?” It wasn’t a question.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s…” Jord looked away. Years ago, Orlant had turned to Jord, a drunken flush on his face, and called him the Prince’s favourite. Jord had gone red at Orlant’s insinuations, and his own wild imagination. In hindsight, he could see what Orlant had — the Prince had been a boy then, and infatuated. But now it was two years later and the Prince was a young man, the fairest in the kingdom; Jord would never have expected he’d look at him twice.

“I don’t understand,” he said, eventually.

“Well, me neither, that’s for sure.”

That got Orlant a well-deserved glare from behind Jord’s mug. Orlant cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Well, if you ask Elise,” he said, “some of the washerwomen in the Palace think you’re not bad looking. Maybe the Prince likes a bit of rough.” And then he took another gulp, and grinned. “Tell me. How rough exactly does he—”

Jord kicked him under the table.

* * *

The Prince enjoyed Acquitart. He went on daily outings to visit the town and the grounds, and when he met with the nobility of the neighbouring estates he did so with much more enthusiasm than he did when attending functions in Arles. He smiled often, and every time the world seemed to brighten up in vibrant colours around him. He looked at ease with himself, young and carefree, and Jord loved to look at him.

He didn’t send for Jord often. The Prince was busy, or perhaps he didn’t wish the servants who’d known him since childhood to find Jord in his quarters. Or perhaps, a nagging voice whispered deep inside of him, the Prince hadn’t need of Jord when he was happy.

One day, about three weeks into their stay, the Prince went hunting in the nearby forest with the Lord of Nimes, whose lands bordered Acquitart in the west. They returned to the fort late in the afternoon when the shadows had begun to lengthen, and the Prince brought his mare side by side with Jord’s horse on the dusty road.

“It was a good day,” he said, looking to Jord as if looking for assent. Jord nodded, half-uncertain. The Prince threw him a look from under those long lashes. “Do you like to hunt?” he asked. “At home. Do you ever go?”

“Sometimes. It’s…” Jord looked around, searching for the words. “Different.”

At home, sometimes he’d gone with the men of the town into the woods to hunt for bush meat. They’d had bow and arrows and gone on days-long expeditions, and Jord had learned to aim fast and be quiet. A good hunt had meant more food on the table; it was nothing like the sports of the nobility, who had packs of hounds and armies of servants, and hunted bears and boars to prove their skills with the spear surrounded by all the amenities they could want.

“Different,” the Prince repeated. “Maybe you could tell me about it?” And then, “Later? After dinner.”

That evening, the corridor that led to the Prince’s quarters was conspicuously empty of servants. Jord took his time to look around, noticing the details of the rooms that were typically southern, and the touches that he’d come to recognise as the Prince’s own tastes. The bedroom was done up in greens and golds, and the bed was to a side of the room instead of the centre, on the opposite side from the fireplace.

On the desk under the windows there was something long and narrow, wrapped in light satin cloth.

He didn't pay much attention to the décor, truth be told, but later into the evening the Prince cleared his throat and said, “I have something for you.”

Jord, who hadn’t been expecting it, didn’t quite know how to react.

“Go on.” The Prince pointed to the table with his chin. Slowly, Jord made his way over.

Under the cloth there was a sword, wrapped in a fine leather scabbard. The blade was long and narrow, the hilt thinner than that of Jord’s sword. It was artfully carved, the pommel large and flat. Jord’s hand hesitated over the handle.

“If you want to wait all night…” the Prince said from behind him, and Jord smiled to himself and closed his hand around the hilt.

Jord lifted the sword. He felt the balance of it, tested the grip of his hand on the hilt. There was a leather string wrapped around the cross section, and Jord nudged at it with his thumb curious. Then he paused.

There was a gemstone lodged in the base of the hilt, as big as the nail of Jord’s little finger. Jord brushed it with the pad of his thumb, incredulous. It was a sapphire, like the ones that adorned the fingers of noblemen of the court, or dangled heavily from gold necklaces. He’d never seen one up close before, never held so much wealth in his hand.

“I—”

“That will strengthen the hilt,” said the Prince. While Jord had been distracted he’d walked across the room, and now they stood very close. “Or, that’s what the swordsmith said. He could just have been hoping to make a good sale.” And then, “Do you like it? You already have one, of course, and it is very good, but I thought—”

“I like it.” Jord closed his hand around the hilt. The grip was perfect, and he thought — this had been made just for him. He felt a rush. “I like it,” he said. “Why…”

“It’s a gift. It is customary.” The Prince was frowning slightly, his tone oddly formal.

“Customary?” He had a fleeting thought of how sometimes courtiers gifted pearls and rubies to the pets they took to bed, and he had to suppress a burst of incredulous laughter. The Prince was looking at him with inscrutable eyes, as blue as sapphires.

“For your birthday.” Those eyes flickered towards the sword, still in Jord’s hands. “It is today, isn’t it? I—”

“Yes.” Jord had to count the days in his mind to be sure; it wasn’t something he would have thought of by himself. “Today.”

Among the nobility, Jord knew, birthdays were celebrated with grand feasts and gift-giving. The Prince’s own birthday, a few months ago, had been a lavish three-day affair, and everyone who worked in the Palace had been given an allowance of three silver lei. The gifts the Prince had received from the court, from the glimpses Jord had gotten, had been worth hundreds of times as much. He wondered how much the sword he held had cost. He didn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t… Your Highness, I.” Jord swallowed. He tried again. “Thank you.” And then, because he had to know, “How did you…”

“I checked the registers. You gave your age when you joined.”

The Prince said it as if it were perfectly normal. Jord had started out as an armed guard for a wine merchant on the brigands-infested roads out of Chasteigne and joined the militia in Arles about two years later. They’d asked him his father’s name and town of birth, and how old he was. About half the men there only knew the month or season of their birth, and had picked out made-up dates just for the city bureaucrats. Jord pictured the Prince barging his way into a dusty office somewhere in the old garrison building, and demand to inspect years-old records just to learn when to give Jord a sword that cost more than the farm he’d been born in.

“I would have liked to see that,” he heard himself say, a smile tugging at his lips. The Prince’s eyes were very bright.

“Yes, well,” he said. “Before that, I asked Orlant. He said he didn’t know.” And then, before Jord could get in a word, “But he did tell me when his birthday is. You’d have liked to see that too, I’m sure.”

Jord didn’t. Orlant would have winked at him behind the Prince’s back, and whispered absolutely lewd comments until Jord told him, too-loudly, to quit it.

The Prince was still talking, “Would you like to try it out? The balance is very good. We could go to to the indoor ring,” he said. “Live steel, so we’d have to be careful.”

Jord blinked. “Now?” It was well into the night, and most of the fort would be asleep. He was dying to try it out.

“Now,” the Prince said. “Come on. You’re with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is extremely important to note that when Orlant sees Jord’s shiny new sword the first thing he says is a dick joke.


	5. Chapter 5

They returned to Arles to a thunderstorm.

It surprised them mere miles away from the city walls, close enough that they could see the sentries posted on the top of the South Gate. They were drenched by the time they made it in, and the summer air was foggy and heavy with humidity. The rain fell in a multitude of warm drops, so thick that the Gate Garrison had set up lanterns to light the narrow, crowded alleys that sprawled like a maze close to the city walls.

Their Captain offered the Prince shelter and a warm fire until the worst of the storm had passed, and the Prince accepted gladly — the streets would be busy enough as it was, everyone hurrying to return indoors, without adding a royal retinue on horses to the mayhem. They were given the Garrison’s mess hall, and Jord busied himself shaking raindrops off his hood while he looked around the room. He’d once served in a company just like this one, on the west side of the city, checking convoys entering the Arles and patrolling the streets every other night, under a Captain who hadn’t been wealthy enough to buy himself a commission in the Palace. He had fit in perfectly there; it had been good work, and honest. It had been boring.

After an hour the storm had given no signs of abating, and the Prince ordered they ride to the Palace. Lightning streaked the sky in fragmented patterns, and the wind blew so strongly that Jord had to turn his head to the side against it. They made it in about twice the regular time, and just as they rode into the Palace courtyard a messenger arrived reporting that several wharves in the north quartier had been damaged. Mere minutes later a second messenger turned up, for the Prince this time, summoning him immediately to the Regent's Council chambers to discuss the damages to the city. The Regent's orders insisted on promptness and so the Prince went with his clothes still wet and hair dripping, and barely a snide remark to a passing servant that he would require warm tea to be delivered to the Council chamber, and fires in every room of his apartments when he finished.

“Two hours or so from now,” he said. “We all know my uncle takes his duties very seriously.”

Then he left, and the next morning Jord heard that the Prince had been charged by the Council with the task of supervising the repairs of the north quartier — in addition to the wharves, the river banks needed work, and several homes and shops on Ansel’s Street had been flooded. It was mundane work, better suited to a city administrator than to royalty, but the Prince had never thought highly of the minor lord the Regent had appointed to the task, and hadn’t made a secret of it.

“Perhaps you will do a better job,” the Regent had said, and relegated his nephew to selecting contractors and dealing with the Masonry Guild and the City Guard, both led by men who would have preferred to be dealing with someone less illustrious and more experienced.

It all needed to be done in a few weeks, before the Harvest Fair that would bring crowds to Arles from the countryside and clog up river traffic, which meant that the Prince worked long hours cloistered in the same set of rooms on the ground floor, and Jord’s duties had shrunk to walking the same length of corridor over and over. The Prince woke early and retired later than usual, and on the handful of occasions when they found themselves alone he would often lead Jord to his study instead of his bedroom, and ask him questions in that intent tone that had Jord almost flustered at first until he realised the Prince, apparently, just wanted to talk.

Orlant, who had very little shame, kept throwing Jord insufferable looks every time he lost sight of him for more than a few hours, as if he expected Jord to spend all his free time in the Prince’s bed. The betting pool in the barracks had expanded to include Lord Emaurri of the City Guard, who was a useless fop if Jord had ever seen one, and the Prince wouldn’t ever look at him twice.

“So, he doesn’t like him?”

“He has his nails painted with a motif of his family’s seal. I doubt he’s held his sword at all in the past week,” Jord said. “Or ever.”

“But, do you just _think_ the Prince doesn’t like him,” Orlant asked, looking endlessly amused. “Or has he actually said that?”

“He read one of his messages then called him an idiot.”

Orlant seemed extremely satisfied with the answer. “I’ll tell Rochert that. And Brun, from the Palace Guards. He had five silvers.” Then he waited until Jord had taken a sip of his drink, and said, “Is it true that aristocrats put mirrors on their bedroom ceilings to watch themselves fuck?”

Jord sputtered, and felt his face heat up. Orlant looked even more satisfied than he’d been a minute ago; he shrugged, unapologetic. “I’ve heard Councillor Audin does.”

Jord, who found himself in the same room as Councillor Audin at least thrice a week, would have rather not knowing any of this. But he couldn’t help but picture it, the tall ceilings in the Prince’s rooms covered in reflective glass, the Prince’s blue eyes staring unblinkingly as Jord moved above him. He’d always liked to watch.

Jord turned his face away.

“That’s disgusting,” said Orlant, who was still looking at him. And then, glancing around to check they weren’t being overheard. “Tell me. I’ve always wanted to know,” he began, and Jord braced himself for something unspeakably filthy.

“What does that bed feel like?”

“The bed,” Jord said, after a pause.

“I bet it’s large,” Orlant said. “Space to roll around. Joie washes the pillowcases sometimes, and she says those are satin. I think about sheets like those,” he said, wistful. “I think my back would stop hurting if I had a bed like that.”

“Or maybe it’s not the bed,” Jord said. “Maybe you’re just getting old.”

And then he snatched his drink out of the way, just in time to avoid Orlant stealing it in retaliation.

* * *

A few weeks later, a courier arrived from Patras. He carried an official invitation issued from the King to the Crown Prince of Vere to visit the Patran court. He also had another missive, a more private letter from Prince Torveld that explained the personal reasons behind the invite. The Prince broke the seal himself, then flicked the letter to the side within moments of skimming through it.

“I am not interested in going,” he said, and shoved the folded paper under a stack of books.

And then he said it again, later, to the Regent in private audience.

“Absolutely not.” And then, “I have plenty of duties here. Why, if we’ll get snow next month who will you put in charge of sweeping all the roads?”

The Regent didn’t look amused. He gave a slow, exasperated sigh. “You promised to entertain seriously the offers you would receive. Or are you going back on your word?”

The Prince looked to the table in front of him as he spoke. “I promised that as a condition I would remain in Arles. I am not leaving.” And then, as if to himself, “Especially not now.”

“You have received an official invitation from a foreign monarch. Not to go would be a slight.”

“We both know whom the invitation was really from,” the Prince said. “I will reply that I am too busy to travel, but Prince Torveld is welcome to visit again if he’s so interested in my company. After all,” he added, “whatever his designs, he should remember I am the one who is in line for a throne. He’d be expected to come to me.”

The Regent’s eyes were keen and cold, and of the same exact shade as his nephew. He looked to the Prince, considering.

Then, “No. You will go. Or you know what the consequences will be.”

This time, when the Prince left without being dismissed, the Regent didn’t call him back. The Prince walked in a stride to his sparring room and ordered Jord to follow him inside, even though it was late in the morning and he wasn’t dressed for it. Then, in the afternoon, he very publicly declared his intention to go on border duty in the southern provinces — in the spring, when the roads would be heavily trafficked and the risk of raiders was stronger. He spoke all the right words and thanked his uncle for his wise counsel, and basked in the praise of the court until the Regent left the room. Then he left as well, walking swiftly with nervous energy.

“If I’d said yes to Patras,” he said, even though Jord hadn’t asked, “He would have done everything to keep me there. Or he would’ve sent me to Vask afterwards, or on a ship to Kempt. At least on the border I’ll have swords and enemies I can see.” And then he said. “You know, if they expect me to lead troops, Uncle can’t object to me appointing myself a Captain.” Then he shrugged to himself. “But spring is months away. We’ll see. Maybe things will be different by then.”

* * *

Orlant found him in the evening.

“Does this mean the Prince is going to stop accepting Lord Sevrin’s invitations?” he asked, and Jord shrugged.

“I think so.”

“ _Fuck_.” And then, to Jord, “It’s nothing personal. I still had hope.”

“Who gets all the coin now?” Jord asked, curious. “Since no one…” He trailed off. _Guessed who the Prince was fucking_ seemed crass. He still couldn’t quite believe it, sometimes, that the Prince had chosen him out of everyone he could possibly have. Earlier he’d pushed Jord to the wall and kissed him, in an alcove barely out of view, as if they’d been any other couple of lovers. It had left Jord dizzy and spluttering, and the Prince had smiled slyly to himself with a hint of youthful smugness and told Jord he’d see him in two days.

Orlant was still frowning. “Someone probably bet he wouldn’t pick anyone. I think it was Huet.” And then, “What’s Huet even going to do with all that coin?”

The next evening, Orlant managed to talk Huet into buying everyone drinks. The first tavern they wandered into was too crowded, and the next one was fine until a handful of men from the Regent’s Guard walked in. The third one, they all agreed, had the best ale, although the spirits weren’t nearly strong enough. They drank round after round, and in the morning Jord’s head ached when he went to report for duty. The Prince appeared utterly unmoved.

“I am going for a ride,” he announced, and sent Jord to fetch Rochert and Jan and wait for him down in the stables. The air was brisk and cool, and at least it made Jord feel better.

The Palace was built on a hill not far from the northern side of the city walls, and it wasn’t long before they were past the gate and out across the open fields. Jord looked to the valley in the distance, the faraway town and villages, the groves of trees yellow with autumn.

Then the Prince rode out on a fast gallop, and Jord hastened to follow.

The Prince liked to ride. He was good at it, and fast, and by the end of it his hair would be windswept and his face flushed, his eyes bright with excitement. He looked the same after a ride as he did after fucking, and Jord couldn’t keep his eyes away.

He also enjoyed outpacing his guards, which drove Jord mad in a different way. Young Jan was the first one to catch up with the Prince, among a spot of trees some distance from the road, and by the time Jord reached them the Prince had dismounted and was caressing the head of his mare, and making jokes about Jan’s riding stamina that had him sputtering and laughing.

“Short of breath?” the Prince asked. “If you wish to dismount and lie down, we have some time.”

“Yes, if you break your neck we’ll have all the time in the world,” Jord said, and the Prince’s upper lip curl into a small smile. He saw Jan glancing between the two of them, surprised, and worried that perhaps he’d been too familiar. Was Jan expecting the Prince to snap at him? Or, maybe—

And that was when they were attacked.

They came from behind the trees, with a volley of arrows that whistled in the air. One narrowly missed Jord’s thigh and another hit Jan’s horse in the flank. It whinnied, jerking to the side, as another arrow hit the ground barely a step away from the Prince’s mare. She was well-trained and battle-ready, and shied only a little, but the attackers were on them before he could get back in the saddle.

Jord swore, drawing his own sword and looking around frantically, too far to do anything. There were six attackers that he could see, wearing armour of boiled leather, weapons held high. They were making for the Prince, who was on foot and unarmed. Jan too had dismounted, and his sword was unsheathed. He looked uninjured, but he was too far from the Prince to get to him before the first of the attackers.

Jord didn’t think. He dug his heels against the flanks of his horse, and spurred it forward, yanking his sword from its sheath. He had the advantage of being mounted, but all the men had to do was get to the Prince first. His horse’s hooves tore at the sod. The Prince was shouting something to Jan, one hand on his horse’s bridle.

Reaching the nearest of the attackers, Jord swung his sword and struck down hard against someone’s back. His blade bit deeply into the leather armour and the man lurched and whimpered. One of his companions whirled around to face him — he was armed with a lance, a mighty-looking weapon that was close to the spears the Prince used when hunting _sanglier_.

Jord yanked sharply on his reins, eyes jumping frantically from the vicious weapon and the hard eyes of the man wielding it to where the others were holding off four of the men. The Prince had seized a sword from someone and was fighting shoulder to shoulder with Jan.

The lancer levelled his weapon at him and for a brief, sickening flash Jord was back four years ago at Sanpelier, facing Akielon outriders bristling with lances. His heart thundered in his throat and he kicked his horse forward, inside the range of the weapon.

Someone screamed and Jord jerked his head around, the swing of his sword going wild as his concentration broke, but it was only one of the attackers, who’d fallen to the ground clutching at his stomach. The man with the lance struck at him and caught his horse’s flank a glancing blow, making her scream and dance. He yanked on his horse’s reins spurring her inside the range of the lance, and before the man could re-adjust his stance Jord let his sword arm fall in a heavy blow that felled him where he stood.

Head ringing, Jord looked around. Half of the attackers were on the ground, including one of the men near the Prince, but they were still surrounded, cut off from their horses. The Prince was quick with his sword and Jan certainly not unskilled, but they were two against three, and Jord spurred his horse to join them. He felt his pulse all the way into in his throat.

One of the men turned as Jord approached, and the Prince used his momentary distraction to strike him heavily on the arm. The man swore and stumbled back, but didn’t fall. The Prince pressed his advantage with another stroke and Jord felt a flare of pride under the pounding terror of seeing him in danger. Jord swung his sword at one of the men attacking Jan. The blow was deflected by his leather breastplate, but made him stagger and falter, and Jan sliced at his throat. He missed, but the blade opened up a bloody gash across the man’s face, making him scream and drop his weapon. The last remaining man snarled at the Prince and Jord urged his horse toward them.

There was an unmistakable thud of hooves behind him, and Jord whirred around just in time to see a rider carrying a long lance, galloping toward them from the road. Jord hesitated, torn, as the Prince engaged the last man on food. Going to his Prince’s aid had left Jord backed up almost against the trees with little space for manoeuvre, but he was between the road and the rest of the fighting, and the others were unmounted. If he didn’t stand his ground they would end up easy prey, ripe for picking. Jord tightened his grip on his sword, eyes on the rapidly approaching rider.

The reach of his weapon was longer than that of Jord’s sword, but the first strike was a lancer’s best chance — if Jord could knock the blow aside he would be able to get inside the man’s range. He held his breath, counting heartbeats, judging distance. If the man was stronger than Jord could deflect, he would be skewered, and Laurent left defenceless.

Just then, Jord saw a flash of motion at the corner of his vision. He hadn’t heard the hooves at all; Rochert had been very, very careful. Jord adjusted his posture on the saddle, as if ready to strike. Rochert rode in from behind the rider, and swung his sword hard at the back of his head. The edge of the blade bit messily into the gap above his armour; the man’s horse’s cried out and he rolled from the saddle a bloodied corpse. Jord looked away, searching frantically for his Prince.

He found him unharmed and on his feet, standing over the bodies on the ground, and Jord felt his breath rush out of him in a relieved gasp. The Prince was standing beside his horse, whispering soothingly to her.

“You took your bloody time,” Jord told Rochert, swinging down from his saddle to inspect his horse’s hindquarters. The gash was long and bloody but not deep. Taking her halter, Jord led her back toward the Prince. He looked up at Jord, giving him a small, tired nod. Jord nodded back, casting his eye over the bloody field, counting the bodies in the grass. Two were still moving, twitching in their death throws, and two were clearly alive, swearing and clutching their wounds. The last looked dead. Jord counted five, then frowned. They had been six, plus the mounted lancer who now lay headless behind him…

A figure rose up behind the Prince, clutching a dagger in his hand — it was the first man Jord had dispatched, an insufficient blow. Jord felt ice pour down his ribcage, and his senses slowed down. He could hear Rochert swearing behind him, Jan’s warning yell. Laurent’s mare flared her nostrils in alarm and Laurent’s eyes widened, but Jord was already flinging himself forward, dropping his own reins and hurling himself across the distance between them. _Too far_. The man was bringing his arm down toward Laurent’s neck even as Laurent whirled, reaching for his sword again.

Jord’s chest hit Laurent’s shoulder hard enough to jar the breath from his body, sending them both toppling sideways. Jord felt a searing pain across his shoulder, and then heard the man shout and the unmistakable sound of a sword impacting flesh. He and Laurent both hit the ground, the muddy earth breaking their fall. Laurent was warm and alive under him. The attacker fell with a heavy thud beside them, and Rochert yanked his sword out of the man’s neck.

Jord levered himself up on his elbows, staring down at Laurent— his face was flushed, mouth slightly open. There was blood on Laurent’s face but it wasn’t his — it was from Jord’s shoulder. The dagger had sliced cleanly through his jerkin, and the wound was bleeding fast. They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Jord’s arm gave out, and he fell back on his Prince’s chest.


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually, the wound stopped bleeding. Jan bandaged it tightly with strips of cloth salvaged from the clothing of the dead, his fingers quick and surprising skilled. Rochert saw to the horses and pronounced them healthy enough to at least make it back to Arles. The Prince nodded his agreement, standing rigid with his hands balled in tight fists, his face pale under the dried blood on his check. He surveyed the field around them, the fallen men and the deceptive calm of the countryside.

The attackers were all dead. Two of them had survived, and Rochert had suggested they be interrogated. But they were miles from Arles on wounded mounts, and whoever had shot the first arrows might still be hiding in wait somewhere. Besides, there was no guarantee the attackers would know anything of value, the Prince he’d said. Calmly, mildly, he’d ordered Rochert to kill them.

At that the prisoners had recoiled, jerking frantically in their restraints They’d yelled and pleaded, offering to reveal everything they knew. The Prince had Rochert kill one of them regardless; that had made the other one pretty talkative. He had, indeed, revealed everything he’d known, which hadn’t been much.

The Prince had killed the man himself, afterwards, while Jord had been too exhausted and useless to even stand up.

Now Jan tied the bandage in place and pulled back to admire his work, standing up above Jord. “All done.” He spoke with forced cheer. “That should hold. Your Highness, he’s good to ride. Should we…” He trailed off.

“Yes.” The Prince’s eyes flickered over Jord’s body. “Can you stay in the saddle?”

His tone was surprisingly gentle. Jord nodded. “Yes.” And then, because the Prince didn’t look convinced. “It’s not that bad.” Sanpelier had been worse, he thought. “I just— I’ll need some help mount.”

The Prince nodded. “Jan, see that he doesn’t fall from his horse,” he said, and then waited until he was satisfied with Jord’s seat before mounting on his mare.

The ride back to the city was slow and tense, every instant spent in fear that they would be attacked all over again, and wouldn’t be as lucky this time. Jord’s wound hitched under the bandage; he wasn’t looking forward to the ministrations of the physician, who would wash the cut until it burned and expect him to comply with unreasonable demands. He had been lucky, Jord thought. The cut was painful but not very deep, and only a mere couple of inches higher would have meant a blade to the throat. A couple of seconds too late, and his Prince would be dead.

Jord shuddered in his saddle, and the sudden movement pulled at his shoulder. His good hand felt numb around the reins, and his fingers shook. It was very cold.

They weren’t met by any outriders, even though it had been hours now since the Prince had set out on his ride, and he must surely be missed somewhere by now. The officer on duty at the gate came down to meet them, looking shocked when he saw that the Prince had been harmed. He was a tall lean man who Jord remembered vaguely from his days in the regular militia, and offered immediately to send for a physician.

“It’s not mine,” the Prince said, raising one hand to brush his face and neck as if he’d forgotten the blood was there. He sent a messenger ahead to the Palace, and once they arrived they were immediately surrounded by a gaggle of stable boys and Palace guards. The Prince sent Rochert to alert Paschal of their arrival and told Jan he was free to go with the stablemaster to see to his horse, the most badly-injured of the lot.

Jord thought about dismounting from the saddle. It seemed hard, somehow, through the dizziness and the slight tremors wrecking his body. His head was thumping, and the wound on his shoulder pulsated dully with each heartbeat.

“—Jord?”

It was Laurent’s voice. Jord blinked.

“Do you need help?”

He shook his head. He managed to dismount without stumbling, and it felt like a major accomplishment. That was odd; he hadn’t thought the wound was that bad.

“The ride probably made it worse,” Laurent said. Had he spoken out loud?

“I want you to get that seen to immediately. As soon as Rochert gets back.”

He was keeping himself very close. Jord could see the specks of blood on the collar of Laurent’s jacket. He’d hate that, Jord thought. Then he looked to Laurent’s face and saw that he was frowning — not as he did sometimes, intent and pensive, but looking concerned. His pale lips were moving with urgency, and Jord felt a fit of worry. He tried to turn to look behind himself and see what was so scary, but he fumbled on his feet instead, and his head spun as he fell.

He passed out before hitting the ground.

* * *

When he came to himself he was lying in a bed that was too large and too soft to be his own. The bedding around him was soaked with sweat, and he was shivering, feeling oddly boneless, so light that he might float away any moment. There was a hand gently pressing something cold against his forehead, and Jord thought about opening his eyes but the effort seemed unbearable. He turned his head into the touch, and breathed.

The next time he woke up, he was more lucid. He was half-sitting in the bed, sprawled against a pile of pillows, and the room around him wasn’t one he’d ever seen before. It was well-lit with large windows, decorated in pale colours. He tried to speak, but his throat was so dry it almost hurt.

He coughed.

“There you are,” a voice said, and Jord recognised the calm tones of the royal physician. “Water?”

Jord nodded, and a hand pressed against his nape to hold his head steady as he drank. Once he could speak, he cleared his throat.

“What happened?”

“Poison,” Paschal said. “On the blade. It was a quick-acting one, and it took some time to… you still have a fever, but better than it was.”

“Yes.” His head hurt, almost as much as his shoulder, pain spiking through him with every breath. “Will I…”

“You’ll be fine. In a few days.” And then, with lack of any kind of bedside manner, “You were very lucky the wound was shallow.”

Lucky. Jord thought of a sombre-faced royal courier bringing the news to his sister. He felt dizzy, like he might sink among all those pillows.

“I’ll send word to the Prince that you woke up,” Paschal said, shaking him from his reverie. “He’ll want to know. And you have a visitor, if you feel well enough?”

Jord didn’t feel well at all, but in his experience, there was nothing as boring as a sickbed. If he’d been better at reading, perhaps, or in a shared infirmary with someone to play cards with. So he nodded, and his head spun so much that he immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Who is it?”

It was Orlant, predictably, who greeted him with perhaps too much cheer after examining him critically.

“You’re looking like shit.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Jord said. His voice croaked. “But I was wounded. What’s your excuse?”

Orlant went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “You know, Paschal said that if the wound had been any deeper you’d be dead.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“One would think he’d learn to sugarcoat it, serving royalty. But he said that in the Prince’s earshot. It wasn’t pretty,” Orlant said. “He didn’t take it well at all.”

The last memory he had of Laurent was of him looking pale and frightened, calling Jord’s name with urgency.

“Listen,” Orlant said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but…” He shrugged. “Maybe you should know. When you— the physician said he’d do whatever he could, but that it might not be enough. He asked if you had family in the city. The usual.” He looked away, uncomfortable. Men died in service, even in times of peace. They’d both seen it happen, brought the news to family and friends once or twice. Jord wouldn’t have wanted to do that for Orlant.

Orlant cleared his throat. “So, the Prince was there — he came with us, and he heard, and he got… angry. He told Paschal he better do his job or else, and he walked away, and shut himself in a room. And after he sent me to get someone to clean it up. And then he left,” he said. “He came to talk to Paschal a few times, since.”

Jord frowned. “How long have I—”

“Four days.”

Four days. He couldn’t remember ever being unconscious for that long, not even after at Sanpelier, not even when he’d gotten ill as a child and his mother had cried as she called for the town healer.

“Did anything else happen?” he asked. “While I was…”

Not much, it seemed, but Orlant put in a decent effort to distract him with meaningless talk. Huet had spent a good amount of his betting wins to buy himself a new longbow. Elise the kitchen girl would be going home to her family for her sister’s marriage, but she’ll probably come back. “And if she doesn’t,” said Orlant, “Joie said I can take her dancing next week, anyway.”

Rochert had followed Huet’s example and bought himself new boots, that he swore would be in fashion next spring but for now looked patently ridiculous. Clyment from the Regent’s Guard had gotten drunk in a tavern and made a fool of himself with a young lord from Varenne, Orlant reported gleefully, and Jord had the impression that the men of the Prince’s Guard had been responsible for this particular gossip spreading as far as it had. In less amusing news, the Regent’s boy pet hadn’t been seen around court in a while, but no one seemed to agree on how long.

That got Orlant on the topic of pets, and he reported faithfully on the allegations that Lord Grefin’s pet had left court for a poorer contract with the de Cormeilles of Chasteigne because his old master couldn’t get it up. Lord Grefin’s tastes had turned to a variety of new toys, apparently, but his skills with them were lacking. It would be some time before he could get another contract with a pet as renowned as Olivier.

“Perhaps someone from the country,” Orlant was saying, animatedly, when there was a barely-there knock on the door and Laurent walked in.

“Your Highness.” Orlant jumped to his feet. Jord tried to turn to look in the direction of the doorway, but the sudden movement pulled at his aching shoulder. He groaned.

“Stay _still_ ,” Orlant said, reprimanding. Then, to Laurent, “He’s looking better, isn’t he?”

He said it in that way people tended to speak of sick patients, as if Jord weren’t even there. He cleared his throat, and the dry scraping feeling of it brought tears to his eyes. “I thought I looked like shit,” Jord croaked.

“You do. Just not as much as you did earlier.”

Laurent still hadn’t spoken a word. Orlant’s eyes flickered between the two of them, and then he excused himself, gracefully disentangling from the room with a subtlety Jord wouldn’t have thought him capable of.

The door closed behind him, and Laurent slowly seated himself in the chair Orlant had vacated. It was large and cushioned, as obviously expensive as the rest of the room. Jord took him in: was as impeccable-looking as usual, laced up to his neck, shadows under his eyes that shouldn’t have been there.

“I didn’t.” Jord’s throat hurt. He tried again. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I wasn’t _worried_ ,” Laurent said. Then he looked away. “You didn’t. I was— angry. Frustrated,” he added. “I’m not very good with frustration. And there wasn’t anything I could do, and there were so many other things I had to do instead, and it was… And Orlant needs to learn not to run his mouth.” He rubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hands, unselfconsciously. “I’m talking too much. You probably have a headache.”

Jord’s headache was well balanced out by the small pleasure of seeing Laurent so open. “It’s not that bad.”

“Paschal said you’d have a headache, when you’d wake up, and feel tired. And a sore throat. Did you drink water?” There was a wooden cup on the bedside table, and Orlant had helped him drink some earlier. Laurent peeked at it, then frowned. “You could stand to drink more. Did Paschal tell you anything else?”

“He gave me a few days. And he said I was lucky.”

Laurent’s mouth twisted at that, and he rested his eyes on the same spot on the wall he’d been staring at earlier. He crossed his arms over his chest, and didn’t speak.

Jord counted seven heartbeats. Then, tentatively, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Laurent frowned. “What are you apologising for? It’s not your fault.”

“I could have seen that man earlier. Dispatched him better, when I had the chance. I didn’t—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He sounded the beginning of pissed off, which was never a good thing in Jord’s experience. But then he said, “You did your job admirably. You will be commended. Once you can manage to get out of bed.”

Hopefully soon, Jord thought. An easy convalescence and a smooth return to his duties, and then, in the spring, they would leave for the border.

“That’s good,” Jord said, and Laurent turned his eyes back on him with all the strength of an icy-blue blaze.

“If you say so.”

Moments passed, agonisingly slow. Jord sank deeper into the pillows, wondering idly where in the Palace he was. The sun filtered through the half-opened windows at an angle, illuminating small flecks of dust in the air.

Eventually, Laurent spoke.

“I thought you would die,” he said, low. A confession. “I was scared.”

Jord had been scared, too, out there among the trees. Terrified of seeing Laurent cut down in front of his eyes. But it wasn’t the same thing, or at least it shouldn’t have been.

He swallowed. Then he said, “I’m not dead.”

“No. If you’d died I don’t know—” Laurent cut himself off sharply. “I’m glad,” he said, slowly. “That you were lucky.”

Then he stood up sharply, the legs of the chair dragging over the carpet. “I’ll leave you.” And then, “Get well.”

He walked swiftly across the room. He was halfway to the door when Jord called out, “Laurent.”

He stilled. Then he turned around slowly, biting on his lip.

“Do you,” Jord said, quickly. “Do you have to be somewhere?”

Slowly, “Not for a while, no.”

“Could you stay?”

Laurent’s face turned softer. “I suppose.”

He walked back to the chair and dragged it over the carpet until it was level with the head of the bed. He sat back down with his hands in his lap, his posture less rigid than it had been earlier.

“Where are we?” Jord asked. “This room, I mean.”

“We’re near my quarters,” Laurent said. “There are all those rooms here that no one ever uses, and I thought…”

“Thank you.” Jord craned his neck to glance around. “I really wasn’t looking forward to the infirmary.”

Laurent turned up his nose at the mention of the Palace infirmary. “You know,” he said then. “The training ring isn’t far from here. And Paschal’s study, of course— I came looking for him, while he was here with you.”

That the Prince spent a few hours of his week in the physician’s rooms was something the entire Guard knew. Early on Jord had assumed he must be taking lessons, but as he’d come to know Laurent better he‘d started to think that he probably just enjoyed the occasional company.

“Did you come while I was— asleep?”

“Feverish,” Laurent said. “Yes. You were sweating and crying out. You know,” he went on, “sometimes Paschal asks me to help, when I visit with him. If he thinks I have nothing better to do.”

Jord had a brief flash of the greying, kind-faced physician telling the Prince of Vere what to do. Laurent was still speaking, “So, he let me…” He brought one hand up to brush Jord’s forehead, lightly. Jord’s skin tingled at the touch.

“I remember that.”

“Do you?” he sounded pleased. “I was… I thought I should be here.”

A warm feeling spread out inside of him. Whatever Jord might have hoped for when he woke up, it hadn’t been this. “Laurent,” he said. “I’m—”

“You know,” Laurent said, “That is the second time you’ve called me that.”

He felt, suddenly, a rush of heat run through his body. There was excitement there, too, and an odd lightheadedness.

“Your Highness—”

“The third time, actually. If you count when you were sick. You probably don’t remember. I don’t mind.” Laurent was very close. Jord could see the small spot to the side of his right eye, feel the barely-there brush of Laurent’s breath against his face.

“When we were in Acquitart,” he went on, “I wondered if perhaps I should tell you to call me by name, when we are alone. But I then thought you wouldn’t care for that much.” In a low voice, he said, “I think it gets you off that it’s your Prince you’re bending over.”

The words were a hot whisper against his skin, and Jord groaned. “You can’t say this now,” he protested. “That’s…” _Unfair_ , he meant to say, but Laurent merely merely stared back with that half-smile of his.

“I can say whatever I want,” he said, unblinking and innocent. Jord laughed, until it turned into a cough.

“I told you that you should’ve drunk more water. Here,” Laurent said, handing him the cup. And then, hesitant. “Do you think you need help?”

He said it earnestly. Jord pictured Laurent holding the cup to his lips as he drank, his Prince doing the menial task of a servant, and he felt another surge of heat creep up to his face.

“I can manage,” he sputtered, and lifted up the cup between shaking fingers. He ended up spilling some of it in his chin and neck, and Laurent gave him an even look.

“Clearly,” he said.

Then he leaned back against the back of his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, studying him intently from under his eyelashes. He kept looking at him until Jord felt his head grow heavy, sinking into the pillows, and through his half-lidded eyes he caught a glimpse of Laurent standing up and casting one last long lingering look down at him.

When he left, the door closed softly behind him.

* * *

When Jord woke up next he felt well enough to rise from the bed. Perhaps not strong enough yet to wash and eat by himself, but he did it anyway and then predictably had to lie down again. Orlant didn’t come to visit that morning, but Rochert and Jan did, and Jord had to suffer through some mild teasing for passing out in the middle of the yard before being treated to the story of how Jan had learned to bandage wounds so well as a boy in Marches.

After that, he was mostly left alone. Paschal came to check in on him once, and a brown-haired woman wearing the livery of a Palace servant walked into the room to rekindle the fire and refresh the room. Jord disliked the feeling of lying in bed while she worked; he turned, uncomfortable, to stare at the door so he didn’t have to watch her clean up and do tasks he would’ve usually managed perfectly by himself. She’d left the door half-open for property’s sake, and that would be enough between the two of them — after all, even the nobility had better things to do than hindering servants on their jobs by restricting their movements around the rest of the household. Still, he felt idle and useless, and counted down the minutes until she was gone.

The next time he woke up there was another servant, a young man wearing the familiar livery of the Prince’s household, who Jord might have seen around before and who probably knew enough of him to guess why he was in this room on Laurent’s orders instead of downstairs in the Palace infirmary. He had orders from the Prince to change the sheets, he told Jord, and could he move to the chair while he worked?

Jord, slightly stunned, told him that it wasn’t necessary. Really, he insisted, and the young man shrugged and left.

“Thank you,” he said, belatedly, as the door closed.

Laurent came in the evening, and seemed surprised to find him awake.

“I thought you needed to rest,” he said, with that familiar frown and the same tone he’d used yesterday to tell Jord to drink more water. When Jord said that he’d rested plenty all day Laurent looked at him intently then nodded, apparently satisfied.

This time, he sat at the foot of the bed, close enough that their bodies bushed through the covers.

“What were you talking about, yesterday?” Laurent asked. “Before I got here. You were laughing.”

Jord had to think about it. “Orlant was telling me about Lord Grefin’s pet.”

“Ah,” Laurent said, knowing. “Lord Quéquette.”

Jord couldn’t hold back a snort. “You’ve heard?”

“There’s a lot to that story, depending on who you ask. Some say that Olivier was spying on his Lord for a rival house. Others say that is just a rumour Grefin spread to distract from voices of his own unsatisfying performance.”

“And which one is true?”

“I haven’t found out yet.” Laurent shrugged. Then he looked around, taking in the beautiful room with the large windows, utterly bare. “You should’ve told me,” he said. Jord frowned.

“That you’re getting bored out of your mind.”

 _That_. There wasn’t much to do, in bed all day with nobody to talk to. He slept a lot, and he ate, and he spent quite a few hours of his day just staring at the ceiling.

“It’s a bit boring,” Jord admitted, and Laurent nodded to himself.

The next time he came to visit he brought with him a deck of cards. The figures were familiar — fire and holly and swords and chalice, twelve cards each — but the cards themselves were hand-painted and lacquered so that the surface reflected some of the light of the room.

Under Jord’s eyes, Laurent began to shuffle the deck.

“What are we playing for?” he asked. “Surely not coins. Not buttons either, you’re not wearing any.” He gave Jord’s bedshirt a long thoughtful stare, and Jord had to turn his head away under that look. “Any ideas?”

Among the Guard, sometimes they would play for privileges. Winners got to pick shifts first, and the losers got stuck with the lousiest duties. Or, if it was later into the night and someone had to drink, they might play for confessions. No one gossiped as much as soldiers, Jord’s first sergeant used to say.

“Truths?”

Laurent appeared intrigued for a moment, but then shook his head. “We could trade favours, I suppose.” He offered Jord the deck. “Cut.”

He had Jord cut the deck. Then Laurent laid down eight cards face down between the two of them, four on each side. Jord checked his hand tentatively — it wasn’t bad, he thought. He could do something with this.

Within ten minutes, he’d lost.

Laurent played carefully. He lost hands, sometimes; played a card then twisted his mouth in displeasure at Jord’s answering move. But he won far more often than not, and he seemed to be able to guess what Jord held in his hand.

After the first game, Jord looked with attention at the back of the cards laid down over the covers. They were free of marks, but…

“Did you cheat?”

Laurent’s eyes flickered to the side. Then, “Of course not,” he said, looking back to Jord. The corner of his mouth was turned up in a small smile. “I just have a good memory. And I know you,” he said. “I could guess how you’d play.”

Jord took the words to heart. Laurent, too, was predictable once you got to know him. He liked long-running games, and being in control. He’d keep his aces in hand until the very end.

He won the second game, laughing at the look on Laurent’s face.

They were halfway through the third one when he began to feel tired, blinking owlishly and hiding his yawn behind the palm of his hand.

“We can finish this,” he insisted, but Laurent shook his head.

“No fun in winning if you’re falling asleep. And, remember,” Laurent said, “I owe you a favour, but so do you. I’ll collect it from you at some point.”

* * *

Two days later, Jord was released from his sickroom. Paschal reminded him to visit daily for the first week, to change his shoulder bandages and check how it was healing, and very sternly ordered him not to be careful with his arm.

That left Jord near useless, stuck dealing with ledgers and demanding quartermasters. It also meant reporting to Laurent daily, often in the evenings or in quiet afternoons, in his rooms by the warmth of the hearth as sun outside set earlier and earlier into the day.

On the day Paschal pronounced him healed enough to fight with a sword again, Laurent invited him for a spar.

“I’ll go easy,” he said, the barest hint of mischief in his voice. He was gracious about his victory, after, and asked Jord if he felt well enough to go again.

Jord thought about it, massaging his shoulder with one hand, but perhaps he shouldn’t rush straight into it. He shook his head. “Tomorrow?” he asked. “Or two days from now. When there’s time.”

“I can make time,” Laurent said, young and arrogant and wholly earnest, and something tightened within Jord’s chest.

Then Laurent said, “There is something you should know.”

“I meant it,” he began, “when I said you would be commended, for saving my life. Regardless of— ” He paused then, and he half-turned away. “I might have preferred it if it had been someone else between me and that blade, but I meant it. You did an admirable job. You deserved recognition for it,” Laurent said. “Something public and grand. But I didn’t want… attention.”

“I understand,” said Jord, in the silence that followed. He’d never for a moment forgot the gulf that lay between them, not since the first time he’d sworn himself to Laurent, fifteen and fearless and bright. He couldn’t expect anything more than what he already had, and hope it would last.

But, “You don’t understand,” Laurent said. “I didn’t want to show— I don’t want you to be hurt.”

He looked concerned. He looked his age in a way he rarely did; and Jord felt himself respond, heard his voice soften. “Why would I be hurt?”

The sparring room was just as empty as it always was. Yet Laurent glanced around, eyes pausing on the closed door. It was of wood decorated with glass panelling, and the distorted view of the corridor behind it showed that no one was there.

In a low voice, Laurent confessed, “My uncle sent those men after me.”

Then, before Jord could say anything, “He’s done it before, you know. A few months ago there was an accident — a near miss. He was more careful with that.”

“I don’t remember that,” said Jord, carefully. His mind was whirring, trying to fit this revelation within the frame of his worldview. He could see it all too well; he didn’t for a moment doubt Laurent’s words.

“You wouldn’t have noticed it,” Laurent said. He started pacing across the floor, to the window and back. It was very early into the morning still, and the sky outside was dark. Laurent’s words sounded distant, as if in a dream.

“It wasn’t as theatrical. Poison, but a different one. It would have looked like an accident; perhaps someone in the kitchens prepared the wrong kind of mushrooms, or berry sauce. A handful of servants would’ve been put to death, and a couple of farmers somewhere. I didn’t want to believe it.”

He said, “I told myself he wouldn’t do it. That he should be perfectly content as it is, reproaching me and taking power for himself. But then there were those men. That wasn’t an accident.”

Laurent had killed the last of the prisoners himself, after the attack. A bandit, he and the others had been approached to kill Laurent and offered a hefty sum plus whatever luxuries they could salvage from his body. They hadn’t been told who their target was, but they’d guessed; at one point, one of the bandits had tried to argue with the leader that holding the Crown Prince as a hostage would fetch them more than just killing him, and the leader had been adamant that they should follow the instructions they’d been given. The prisoner hadn’t known anything else, and had died pleading.

Now, Jord said, “Do you think…”

“Yes. It’d be awfully convenient.”

Carefully, he asked, “Is that why you didn’t want to leave for Patras?”

Laurent didn’t answer. Instead, “I had it all planned out,” he said. “Before that day, I mean. I was going to ride to the border with hundreds of men, and try to win the support of the lords there. And I would’ve been so careful — wearing full armour, always. Taking guards everywhere. Maybe I’d even get a food taster, like Lady Emelenine. I thought, ‘I can make it for three more years’.”

Jord felt out of his depth. He was quick with a sword and good in a battle, but he didn’t know anything about the kind of fighting aristocrats favoured, waged in pristine rooms with soft words and daggers in someone’s back. And poison. He felt cold.

Laurent was shaking his head to himself. He went on, “I thought, if I made it three more years I would’ve been King, and gifted Uncle a country estate as a reward for his services. Maybe near the mountains, out of the way. I was stupid.”

Tentatively, “You couldn’t have...”

“Naive, then,” Laurent spat out. “Like a child. I should have known he’d do it again, and that it’d be worse. He almost killed you.”

And then he looked Jord in the eyes and said, “I want him dead.”

He said it as if he truly meant it. Jord took half a step back at the words, almost recoiling at the strength of the intent behind them, the fire in Laurent’s eyes. He thought of that horrible drawn-out moment among the trees on that stretch of meadow outside of Arles, when he’d watched Laurent’s face twist in helpless surprise and thought that he was going to be too late to save him.

He heard himself say, “I can do that.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “You’re serious,” he said, as if he’d truly thought Jord could give any other answer. His cheeks were flushed, his stunned half-smile fraught with nerves. His hand brushed Jord’s shoulder, light as a feather.

Then the moment was over, and Laurent pulled back. “You don’t need to get into this.” He spoke each word carefully. “I only wanted you to know that I am going to take care of it. I still owe you that favour, after all.”

“I started making plans, while you were— ill,” he paused on the word, and Jord heard it for what it was. “And I have it well in hand. I know what I am doing.”

“I know.” Laurent was good at planning. He liked the challenge, and the thrill, and sometimes he got too caught up in all his scheming and missed what was right in front of him. “I meant it,” Jord said. “You know that I would do…” _Anything_. He didn’t say it, but the word weighed heavily between them.

Laurent swallowed.

Then, “I can do my own dirty work. Remember? I made you teach me,” he said. “And I meant it, too. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know.” Jord wished, desperately, that he could make Laurent understand. That he’d been adrift until Laurent had found him, and gave him a purpose. That he would die for him, and fill for him, and follow him until the ends of the earth.

“You’re my King,” Jord said.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. Then Laurent smiled. It lit up his eyes in a way that Jord had no words to describe, but the world seemed brighter for it.

Outside, it was daybreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My original idea for this story was a very holiday-themed fic wherein Laurent seduced Jord into committing murder for him. I ended up thinking it would be more fun if Jord's pining for Laurent was reciprocated, so the focus of this fic shifted from plot to feelings and the murder ended up feeling superfluous, but rest assured that it does happen! They kill the uncle and live happy ever after.  
> The true romance was the murder plots we lost along the way.

**Author's Note:**

> tumbling @ [liesmyth](https://liesmyth.tumblr.com) // [twitter](https://twitter.com/liesmyth_)
> 
> I had a blast writing this, and there were many memorable moments and very quotable beta notes during the writing of this fic. To all the amazing people who helped me out: thank you so much.


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